Loser-Ex

My Boyfriend is Weird

2011-08-17T10:32:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of reasons my boyfriend is great. He likes everything I cook, he knows exactly what books and magazines to get me when I am sick, he lets me test eye creams on him, he is proud of me for being thrifty when I use a coupon for his birthday dinner, he can usually dress himself.

But despite all his great qualities, he's freaking weird. Earlier this week, he realized there was a mosquito in his apartment. It happens, we live in a swamp. Little did I know he had a solution to the mosquito problem.

Early this morning, he left my apartment, returning 45 minutes later with an interesting purchase.

Yours for only $44 on Amazon.

Yes, he bought a freaking bug zapper to use inside his apartment to take out a single mosquito. Furthermore, since he is concerned about the fire hazard aspect of this, he plans to sit up all night until the bug gets zapped.

The Crimes of Inanimate Objects

2011-05-22T19:09:00.003-04:00

My fiance is fast on his way to becoming my ex-fiance. It has not been the easiest process (and has not been without a fair bit of bad behavior on my part), but its high time he got a loser-ex post of his very own.

I'm going to try to tell this story without falling into "why my ex deserves to rot in hell" territory, so there's going to be a good bit left out. But what's left is still pretty nuts.

Let's start by saying that, of the contributors to this blog, I am likely the most tolerant, most liberal, and least affluent one of the bunch, with the shortest list of deal-breakers. I'm also the only one still stuck in the South, so maybe I just have less to choose from. At any rate, I put up with things that, frankly, I don't think RGB would. In fact, last time I saw her, she point blank told me that she had very serious concerns about my current relationship. I'm pretty sure she told me that I SHOULD NOT marry my fiance. And she was, as she so often is, right. But this blog is not about the serious reasons for the demise of our relationships, so we aren't going to get into that.

I'm a bit of a partier (causing RGB to despair of my poor behavior on numerous occasions). So, naturally, I often end up with men of a similar mindset. My soon-to-be ex-fiance (let's call him Beethoven) is an example of this.

Beethoven had (how shall I put it?) a problem with illegal recreational substances--and not just the relatively innocuous one you're probably thinking of. He has since gotten over this, but when we were first dating it was bad. Unfortunately, it took me quite some time to understand just how bad it was.

One night, after we had moved in together, he came home quite intoxicated--alcohol, plus other things. I tried to get him to go to bed, but we ended up in an argument instead. He left and I went to bed.

Several hours later, I awoke to screaming coming from the living room. I walked into the room to find Beethoven sitting on the love seat, yelling at my body pillow (which was propped upright on the sofa), accusing it of having stolen the television. And, indeed, our large and expensive flat-screen television was gone.

You can imagine my confusion. I was still groggy and Beethoven was telling me that a pillow had stolen our television. Looking back on it, several years later, it has become no less absurd.

To this day, we do not know what happened to the television. Beethoven has no memory of the night and our best lead implicates a navy blue body pillow in the theft.

So, beware of rogue pillows. Apparently, they are more sinister than they first appear.

An Open Letter to a Particular Loser

2011-04-06T12:27:00.001-04:00

Dear Loser,

I'm glad you were able to make it to the event on Friday. I hope you had a good weekend. Mine wasn't so great. Well, what I remember of it anyway. Oh, that reminds me. Thanks for slipping me a roofie.

I had thought that date rape drugs were limited to frat keggers, but you really took it to the next level by drugging my drink at a professional event. Classy. Like most people, I naively thought that only 19 year-old fratstars have the necessary lack of compassion to drug an unwitting woman, but you have shown me that even middle-aged men with wives, kids and houses in the suburbs are capable of this disgusting act. You're a fucking sociopath. Trust me, I will be much better about watching my drink in the future.

I will also be much better about watching your creepy ass, and so will everyone else I tell this to. If you feel like you're getting a lot of dirty looks at a party one day, it's not your imagination.

Thank you for the valuable lesson in safety. I'm sorry I made it to a cab before you could rape me.

Cheers!

RGB

Jeepers Creepers

2011-02-25T09:32:00.000-05:00

I recently went on a trip and since the mailman has not been delivering my Economist, I was stuck with nothing to read except Cosmopolitan. So I read it like a million times. And while I enjoyed reading the article that made Lea Michele sound like an insufferable bitch, I was a little shocked by some of the advice they are giving to women.

In the past, Cosmo has given really bad advice, like suggesting you use a thong to tie your hair back during sex. Or that you stick your scrunchie on your man's dong (Really, who wears scrunchies? That advice is sooo 1993). Or that you decorate your room by putting a colorful scarf over a lamp (Hello, fire hazard). In fact, more than a few times, I have speculated that the writers are making fun of their readership. But, of all the bad advice Cosmo has given throughout the years, this issue really took the cake.

The article in question discussed ways to meet men. Some of the suggestions were actually pretty good. For example, throwing a party and telling your friends to each bring someone you don't know. This is a good way to meet people. The chance that your future husband is already in your extended social circle is pretty good. Plus, you know he's not a total psychopath if your friend hangs out with him.

But some of the ideas were shockingly terrible. One was that you meet cute doctors by hanging out in the hospital cafeteria. Seriously. There is so much wrong with this. First, the food is nasty. Second, this is a place where people go when they're sick, not a place to go to meet men. That is just wrong. Then, there is the fact that you're bothering some poor guy at work. This is especially bad considering that being a doctor is really stressful to begin with. The last thing a "cute doctor" needs is to be hit on when he's trying to grab a sandwich and get back to saving lives. This wasn't the only suggestion to creepily stalk people at their place of work.

There was another suggestion to look up Realtors online, find a cute one, then call to schedule an appointment to see something he is selling. Really? You think it's cute to waste someone's time? Not to mention it is beyond creepy to stalk someone on the Internet then get them to meet you under false pretenses. Just imagine if this were the other way around and some creepy man looked for attractive female Realtors online and then made appointments just to hit on them. This is gross and would probably be grounds for a restraining order in some places.

I find it incredibly irritating when someone hits on me at a work function. I would be livid and creeped out if I then discovered that the person hitting on me wasn't there on any sort of business other than to hit on women. Seriously. Do not bother people at work.

Also, really, Cosmo? You do a ton of pieces about how to stop creepy men then turn around and encourage women to be creeps? Not cool.

Crazy for you

2011-02-24T11:36:00.002-05:00

I am an anxious person. This is a fact. You would notice after talking to me for 5 minutes. I fidget constantly. I worry about everything. I panic over mundane details. I'm better now than I've ever been. I think that's just part of growing up, you realize that nothing is really that important. The world won't come to an end if I take a sick day. We aren't all going to die if I throw a party without a signature cocktail. Really, none of this is important.

Years ago, I didn't realize this and still worried about everything. My anxiety was out of control and I was on medication for it. Though, once I sought treatment for my anxiety it got better. I really wasn't different from any other person at that point. I didn't tell many people about this because of the stigma associated with mental health problems. It was my dark secret.

Shrek knew about this. Telling him was a mistake. I was open and honest about everything and explained to him what my situation was like. He didn't get it. Or he chose not to. He insisted I needed a one way ticket to the looney bin. He took every opportunity to remind me that I was crazy. One time he couldn't find a shirt, and I asked him if he had checked his hamper. He screamed at me and accused me of not taking my medication. Because I suggested he look in his hamper. Seriously. Oh, and for the record, it was there.

He told me I would never be able to get a job after college because of my psychological problems. He told me I would never be able to have children or even a pet. He told me I would never be able to get anyone else to date me. If I tried to have a conversation with him, he would interrupt me by singing "Crazy." When he did not get the grades to keep his scholarship, he wrote a letter to the dean citing my "severe mental illness" as the reason he was unable to keep his grades up.

Seriously. Shrek was an asshole. I've tip-toed around the issue in the past by only bitching about silly little things he did. But, the real reason I hate him is because he knew about something I was insecure about. And rather than accept this, he exploited it.

I'd like to suggest that when the DSM-V is created, there is an entry for being an asshole. Shrek can be a case study.

Blown Away

2011-02-18T09:10:00.001-05:00

I was at a Katrina fundraiser a while back and encountered one of the single most aggressive acts of jackassery ever.

I was on my way to the bathroom when I was accosted by some scrawny little French guy.

Frenchie: I am French and I want to tell you that you look perfect. Everything. Your dress (side note, I was wearing a navy Ports number and it was pretty perfect), your face, your body.

Me: uhh.....thanks?

Frenchie: I want to kiss you.

Me: No.

At this point, Frenchie aggressively tries to kiss me I am pushing him away while telling him I have a boyfriend and am not interested. He starts speaking in French. I start telling him in French (apparently he didn't understand my protests in English) that I have a boyfriend who is right over there and said boyfriend is going to kick his ass. After one good push, I run to the bathroom and lock the door. When I come back out, I quickly grab my boyfriend and leave.

Some women fantasize about foreign men seducing them. I find them skeezy and dread encountering another brazen and horny foreigner. Seriously though, there is nothing sexy about cornering some poor woman and trying kiss her when she has made it very clear that she is not interested.

Only in Dreams

2011-02-17T09:04:00.002-05:00

I've been having really weird dreams lately. In one of my dreams last night (yeah, I can just hear everyone clicking away from this page now), I was at my parents' house with some friends and family members. We were washing cars in the driveway (my parents have a lot of cars). For some reason Fred was there. He was getting on my nerves, so I asked him to go get my car and bring it around. He got my car and drove it into my neighbor's garage and got it locked in there. They were out of town, so I couldn't get it out. I remember asking my mom "how the hell did that even happen?"

Even in my dreams, Fred fucks up mundane tasks. Loser.

Also, I should stop drinking before bedtime.

I Love DC in the Springtime

2011-02-15T13:55:00.016-05:00

OK, well, maybe it's not exactly springtime yet, but it's starting to get warm.

For some reason, as soon as it warms up, I am subjected to the ridiculous catcalls of creepy dudes. Yesterday was the first warm day in a long time. During my short time outside, I got an "oh la la," (no, he was not French), an incoherent shout from a moving vehicle, and the creepy guy who insists he's a photographer and wants to hire me as a model. Right. And this was just walking three blocks. I should probably add here that I am not wearing anything even remotely provocative. Seriously. I could be going to lunch with my grandma.

Seriously? What the hell? Staring at my tits and saying "oh la la" is not flattering. It's creepy. Just don't do it. And the photographer thing? That's even more lame. I am not going to be your model. I have a job. And the modeling ship sailed ten years and twenty pounds ago.

But, my real problem is with the drive-by pick up lines, mainly because it is not an uncommon occurrence. I am truly amazed at the number of men who think this is a good idea.

Why the hell do these losers do this? Has this ever worked on anyone? Dummies, no one is impressed by whatever you're yelling out your car window. Even if you do manage to come up with something truly interesting, most women are still going to be skeeved out by the fact you're yelling it out of a car. I'm really not sure what results these men are expecting. I really can't imagine someone being so impressed that they drop everything they're doing and jump in the car with some strange man and ride off into the sunset. Although, according to this month's Cosmo, the most dangerous mistake women make is getting in the car with strange men. So, who knows, maybe there are women this works on.

Obviously, none of these losers are my exes, but they're sure as hell somebody's loserex.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-02-14T08:32:00.024-05:00

It's that time of year again. All of us here at LoserEx want to wish you a happy Valentine's Day. Since we've exhausted all our stories of crappy Valentine's Day presents, we've decided to give you your own crappy present to give someone else. Just print these suckers out and you have an instant crappy gift.

You're welcome.

LoserEx Answers Your Questions

2011-02-10T13:44:00.001-05:00

Here at LoserEx, we consider ourselves experts on dating. And as such, we feel qualified to give out unsolicited advice. Unlike other advice columns, we're not very tactful. Actually, we're pretty bitchy. We plan to continue giving our advice to people who sound like they need it, whether they want it or not. If you actually want our advice on something, feel free to email us.

Today's question comes from The Washington Post's "Dear Prudence" chat.

Hi Prudie - I love your writing and now I come to you for advice. There is this girl I have been interested in. I'm sure we will get along great when we finally get together. Anyway, I keep track of her through facebook, and recently she changed some settings that allowed me to see a bunch of her pictures. Needless to say, I was shocked. From what I can tell, she has had THREE boyfriends in the past two years. She also has lots of pictures of her in somewhat compromising positions with other girls, and also lots of pictures with alcohol. I was expecting her to be a nice clean girl, but obviously now I feel I have to let her go. Is this a normal occurrence in the young adult dating world? Or should I continue to keep trying to find the right one. Thanks!

ZOMG! THREE BOYFRIENDS?!?!?!?! SOMEBODY SOUND THE SLUT ALARM!!!!

Seriously, this girl is not some harlot for having had three boyfriends in the past two years. That averages 8 months a boyfriend. There is really nothing bad about dating men for a few months at a time (also, I am assuming she is pretty young, so she should be dating). Based on the fact that you think this is shockingly inappropriate, I am guessing these "compromising situations" are probably pretty tame. Like, maybe she is holding a drink in some pictures or wearing a skirt that exposes her ankles.

You don't say how well you know this girl in person, but based on the fact that you were horrified at the pictures of her doing what are probably normal activities for her, I am going to guess the answer is little to not at all.

I'm thinking you don't get out of the house much. You sound incredibly sheltered and seem to have no clue what normal people are like. Or maybe you're just a member of a very conservative religion, in which case, maybe you should try to meet women at your place of worship. They are more likely to share your values than the women you stalk on Facebook. On a related note, do not stalk women on Facebook. It is so creepy and no reasonable woman would want to date you after finding out you do this.

Is this a normal occurrence in the young adult dating world? Or should I continue to keep trying to find the right one. Thanks!

It is not normal for adults to stalk people on Facebook and develop weird fantasy crushes on them. It is normal for women to drink. It is probably normal for women to end up in what you consider "compromising situations." I'm not really sure what your standards are, so I can't say whether it is worth trying to find someone who meets them. However, given your strange courtship habits, I think you need to see a therapist before pursuing another relationship.

Mardi Gross

2011-02-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

My alumni association hosts an annual party for Mardi Gras. It's one of the major events we have each year. Also, it is a formal thing. OK, well not formal-formal, but women wear cocktail dresses, and men wear suits (except for the hand full who always show up in tuxedos). I feel like I have to express this because people hear "Mardi Gras" and think "Show your tits!" It's not by any means a boobie-flashing kegger.

Fred and I went to the same college, so sometimes he shows up at alumni events. He showed up to the Mardi Gras party a couple of years ago (we were broken up at the time) and hilarity ensued. I've mentioned before that Fred cannot behave himself in public and often finds a way to make even the most mundane public events excruciatingly humiliating. Well, this time he really outdid himself.

Sure, there were moments where I felt embarrassed for him that night. His loud, brutish behavior, his date's wardrobe malfunction. But the crown jewel of the night was something I did not find out about until much later.

The venue at which the party takes place is a beautiful townhouse/gallery with a lot of history. The decorations have an early-American feel in line with the history of the place (so Washington!). It has several heavy wooden tables, bookcases and desks. Well, Fred decided that the furniture was too pretty to just look at. So he rummaged one of the desks and discovered a digital camera in one of the drawers. He decided to have some fun.

First he (or someone else) took pictures of him smiling and giving the camera the middle finger. How nice. Then, he decided that was not enough and took the camera to the bathroom and proceeded to take pictures of his junk. Seriously. He found a strange camera and decided to take pictures of his penis. Nothing I can say here will add to this.

He returned the camera to its location, leaving the elderly groundskeeper (to whom the camera belonged) to discover it later. And I'm sure he thought he would get away with it too. But, since he was smart enough to take face pictures first, it was really easy to identify him. The hand in the penis picture had a sleeve that matched his jacket in the face picture. Dumbass.

I hope he gave up self-portraiture for Lent.

LoserEx Answers Your Questions

2010-12-07T15:00:00.006-05:00

Here at LoserEx, we consider ourselves experts on dating. And as such, we feel qualified to give out unsolicited advice. Unlike other advice columns, we're not very tactful. Actually, we're pretty bitchy. We plan to continue giving our advice to people who sound like they need it, whether they want it or not. If you actually want our advice on something, feel free to email us.

Today's questions come from the Washington Post live chat:

Marriage for kids?: Hi Carolyn, Thanks for taking my question. I just found out I'm pregnant. I'm slowly getting to be very happy about this news even though it was not, ahem, planned. My boyfriend wants to get married before the baby comes. But is a baby the right reason to get married? I've not always been supportive of marriage because I've seen what happens to friends when they divorced and it wouldn't have been nearly as messy if that slip of paper was not involved and they could have just walked away. If it helps, we're both mid to late thirties but haven't been together very long.

You're having a kid with this man but you don't want to get married for fear a break-up would be messy? If you do break up five years down the line, without having ever gotten married, how do you see this working out? You have a kid together. You don't get to just walk away anymore. I don't really care if you get married or not, but just realize either way you're not going to be making a clean break.

Also, if you choose to get married, please choose a small tasteful ceremony (maybe even just going to the courthouse) over a big white wedding. There is nothing tackier than a visibly pregnant bride waddling down the aisle of a church in a fluffy white gown, flanked by 7 bridesmaids. Seriously. I'm embarrassed for you just thinking about it.

Washington DC: Carolyn -- Can you think of any reason it would ever be ok for your boyfriend to hack in and read your email? Or is that pretty much always a dealbreaker?

I would like to elaborate on Carolyn Hax's response here (which was "Dealbreaker.").

If your boyfriend is hacking into your email, he does not trust you. I do not know whether this is merited, but that doesn't matter. If a basic level of trust cannot exist, you guys should not date. If you continue to date him, he will continue to read your email (trust me on this one, once that door has been opened, there is no turning back) and probably find other ways to spy on you as well. You deserve to be with someone who trusts you and respects your privacy. Your boyfriend does not. Just dump him. Seriously.

Then change all your passwords.

On a related note, if you're ever thinking about snooping through your significant other's email/text messages/voicemail/secret diary, take a hard look at your relationship. Chances are it's time to end things.

Really, I'm Not Going Anywhere or Talk Economics to Me, Baby

2010-09-08T03:16:00.004-04:00

I love my fiance. Really, I do. But I simply do not understand why he becomes jealous so easily. A certain amount of jealousy is acceptable and even sweet. If another guy is talking to me in a bar, I think its cute if my fiance comes over to me and puts his arm around me.

But I am virtually unable to mention an ex in front of him if its in an even semi-positive way. I would not do this toward the beginning of a relationship, but we've been together for more than two years--so its getting a bit old. There are a number of ex's that played an important role in my past and with every one of them, there were at least some good times that I do not want forget. So, if I say something about how an ex and I took a trip to Hot Springs and went to a natural spa there, it does not mean that I am considering leaving him to go back to the ex. It just means that I want to share something about my past with the person I want to spend my future with.

And for God's sake, when I say something like "Oh, how I love Paul Krugman," rest assured that I have no impending plans to run off with him. The same goes for any other economist I express admiration for. Also, John Maynard Keynes is very dead and very gay--and I possess neither a propensity for necrophilia nor a penis.

Ask Loser Ex: Giving them something to talk about

2010-09-07T13:37:00.007-04:00

Here at LoserEx, we consider ourselves experts on dating. And as such, we feel qualified to give out unsolicited advice. Unlike other advice columns, we're not very tactful. Actually, we're pretty bitchy. We plan to continue giving our advice to people who sound like they need it, whether they want it or not. If you actually want our advice on something, feel free to email us.

Today's question comes from the Washington Post live chat:

Nashville: I'm a happily married 35-year-old woman. A few weeks ago, I was having drinks at the home of a single female friend who is prone to "oversharing" about her personal life, particularly the rather large number of men she sleeps with.. After an extra margarita or two, she persuaded me to talk about my sex life with my husband -- which is very satisfying and fun, by the way. Much to my surprise, I found myself telling her that we engage in some "kinky" activities -- I spank him, he sometimes wears panties, etc. She was absolutely shocked, told me that my husband would never be a "real" man and that he was almost certainly gay. To my astonishment, she has told several mutual friends about my confession, and now I suspect people are laughing behind our backs. I have cut off all contact with her, but I'm still worried about the firestorm of gossip this has created. What should I do?

You say your husband wears panties like it's a normal thing. And then you are surprised at your friend's reaction. You were probably also surprised that you were teased in middle school for wearing glasses/braces/suede walking shorts over tights. As your mother undoubtedly explained to you then (unless you are me, in which case, Mom selected the aforementioned suede shorts outfit), kids tease you because it gets a reaction. To make it stop, just don't give them the gratification. They will get bored and find someone else to pick on.

Your mom was partially right: yes, the teasing will end much faster if you don't acknowledge it. So, in that regard, you should own the fact that your husband borrows your underwear.

Here's where your mom was mistaken: in middle school you were teased because you were different. While some kids thrived on not being "mainstream", you most likely teased your bangs, trailer park style and wore your jeans pegged to look like every other girl in your seventh-grade class. You prefer to fit in. And that's socially acceptable.

Unfortunately, you have entered into a life-long commitment with a man who does not like to do what's socially acceptable. I cannot imagine a situation where my husband would willingly (and happily) wear my underwear. I cannot imagine a situation where I would willingly (and happily) allow my husband to wear my underwear. My quick, unscientific poll of my female friends suggest that this behavior ranges from weird, to downright nasty. My quick, unscientific poll of my husband is that heterosexual men don't want to be the woman in the relationship. This includes dressing up as a woman for your sexual pleasure.

To update mom's advice: if you want your friends to stop laughing at you behind your back, stop telling people about your weird sexual behavior. I am of the mindset that it's not my business what you are doing in a consensual adult relationship with another human being. But if you make it my business, don't be offended when I judge you.

Beefcake

2010-08-17T14:45:00.002-04:00

A couple of years ago, I wrote about a date I went on with Beefcake, who was involved in a relationship at the time. Well, guess who's getting married!

This November, Beefcake will walk down the aisle with a nice girl whom he has been dating since 2006. Notice a problem here? Their wedding page has the usual saccharine-sweet stories about the happy couple, details about the event and their registry. Nothing about it really stands out as being particularly interesting.

Except for one little thing -- the part that really breaks my heart is his future wife's happy description of their courtship:

We met June 5, 2006 in "beautiful" [redacted] for [redacted]. A wonderful friendship grew into much more over the next several months and in November during [redacted] weekend we made it official.

For those of you keeping track at home, my date with Beefcake took place in spring of 2007. Several months after they had made it official. The worst part is that his fiancee truly seems like a nice girl. And seems truly oblivious to what an ass Beefcake actually is.

I would never wish for anyone's relationship to fail, so instead I am going to hope that what happened with Beefcake was a one time deal and that he will be a wonderful husband.

Loser Current

2010-08-12T12:20:00.001-04:00

You know those Halloween costumes that cheap, lazy parents bought their kids in the '80s? The ones that involved a plastic mask and a plastic apron with the name and a picture of the character on it?

I know you do. But, if you're going to play dumb with me, here is what I am talking about.

Donald Duck does not wear a picture of himself.

Anyway, I am certain that my boyfriend invented these costumes in a past life. Seriously. He insists on adding a name tag to every costume. He's tried to convince me to wear a name tag with my Halloween costume every year.

This year, I've started working on my costume early, and despite the fact that it is a clearly identifiable character, he has once again suggested a name tag. Now, if a name tag is appropriate for the costume, then it makes sense. But, there are only so many times when that is the case. If I were planning to dress up as a waitress or a game show contestant, then his suggestion to wear a name tag would be spot on.

Carmen Sandiego does not wear a name tag.

But, I am not putting together a waitress or game show contestant costume. I am putting together a Carmen Sandiego costume (which, by the way, is awesome).

Carmen is a thief, not a camp counselor. She doesn't wear a name tag. She does, however, wear a pretty distinct outfit that cannot be mistaken for much else. If someone doesn't get the red trench coat and fedora, then they wouldn't know who Carmen Sandiego is anyway, so the name tag would be useless. They either get this costume, or they don't. I think my boyfriend may fall into the latter category, as he also believes that Carmen wears lingerie under her coat and carries sex toys.

LoserEx Answers Your Questions

2010-06-03T21:04:00.005-04:00

As soon as I read this, two things popped in my head: 1) You don't sound very nice. 2) I bet you're fat and/or ugly. Since I am probably one of those girls who is bitchy, high maintenance and demanding, I decided to ask a guy for his thoughts on your question. He said the exact same two things. Just, not in that order.

I am not going to answer your questions because I feel that your premises are invalid -- nice girls are able to find men. All other things being equal, men do not prefer to be nagged incessantly. Instead, I am going to tell you why you are unable to land a man.

First, as I mentioned before, my first thought when reading your question is that you don't sound nice. Honestly, the overall tone of your letter is bitchy and bitter. No one wants to hang out with someone who whines about how all her demanding friends can snag a man but she can't. The fact that you're calling these women bitchy, high maintenance and demanding also does not make you seem nice. I have no reason to believe that you are a nice girl. Rather, I think that you have no real stand-out qualities, so you're assuming you're nice.

Why do you think you're nice? Have men described you as nice? That is usually a euphemism for fat. Also, based on your question, I am guessing that you think high maintenance is the opposite of nice. So, based on that, I am assuming that you consider yourself ultra-low maintenance. You probably are the type of woman who doesn't wear make-up or heels or dresses. You probably don't shave your legs or get your eyebrows waxed. This is not attractive to men. Yes, every man says he wants someone who is low maintenance, but what he really means is he wants someone who isn't wearing gobs of makeup. Gobs of makeup isn't pretty, but neither is broken out skin, under eye circles and eyebrows that have run amuk. Men want women who look pretty. Being pretty means being put together, which could be what you refer to as "high maintenance".

You conclude by implying that you are an easygoing, undemanding partner. To me, this means you sit on the couch like a lump. If this is all you have to offer, you're boring. You do not sound like you bring anything to the table other than a house. And unless it is a really sweet house, it's not going to land you a man. This also contradicts the overall tone of your letter. You bitch about being single, but then swear you're so easy to get along with. You sound desperate, and desperation is only a turn-on at last call.

And how do women like that let the guys know that 'yes, we still do need them?' Don't worry about letting men know you're needy. They already know; you're dripping in desperation.

I Should Have Known Five-Hundred, Twenty-Five Thousand, Six Hundred Minutes Ago that You'd be my Ex-Boyfriend

2010-04-11T14:00:00.004-04:00

My high school boyfriend loved RENT. At the time, I'd never seen the play, the movie didn't exist yet, and I had very little idea of what it was about. I knew vague things like, it was about AIDS and homosexuality. Being the superliberal I am, I figured, well, all these people like it, its about counter-culture-ish topics, its probably good, right? Fast-forward a few years, boy, was I wrong!

I am a bleeding heart, tree-hugging liberal atheist, who also loves musicals. Granted, the musicals I like tend to be more of the "My Fair Lady," "Singin' in the Rain," Gene Kelly-esque persuasion. But I HATED RENT. Seriously, I'm expected feel sorry for a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing "artiste" types who don't want to pay their damn rent? Really? Really? What makes them so special that they don't have to pay rent like the rest of the world? Oh, sorry, I forgot. It's because they are bohemian, misunderstood "artists." Please disregard the fact that they fail to produce anything resembling art. One guy pieces together home movies. Yeah, my fiance's sister did that for her family's Christmas presents last year. It was entertaining for those of us who knew the people, but I would scarcely call it art. Another manages to write one song and carries a guitar around all year, but the most you hear from it is a couple of chords. Oh, and the martyr of RENT kills a dog for money. Yep, these are very sympathetic people. Frankly, by the time the AIDS stuff became a major theme, I'd already grown to despise the characters so much I couldn't have cared less that they had AIDS or Ebola or Dengue fever.

Seriously, societal norms exist for a reason. They make the world function (relatively) smoothly and peacefully. I dislike movies/plays that try to convince people that following society's rules is "selling out" (God, I hate that phrase). Sure, I can support and applaud art that points out and condemns discrimination and other things that are truly harmful. But paying the fucking rent? Are you kidding me? Get a job, hippie.

A far more effective play/movie would have been about a group of 20-somethings, all gainfully employed or trying hard to become so, struggling to make ends meet, while still trying to embrace life and live what they have left to its fullest. I would have responded far better to a story about adults acting like adults than I did to RENT, a story about adults acting like children--but I don't wanna pay my rent.

So most of this has been a rant about why I hate RENT, but the point is, my ex loved RENT.Had I known then what god-awful tripe RENT is, I could have saved myself a lot of time. Knowing what I know now, I feel wholly justified in judging people who like RENT--and would certainly never date one again.

Kissing a Smoker is like Licking an Ashtray

2010-04-05T17:53:00.006-04:00

Colossus (my ex who lives in Arkansas,who in my last post eons ago, I had just left) is a big guy. Really big--6 ft 8.

He is also a good guy. A good enough guy that I was totally prepared to marry him and may well have had circumstances been different. He has an ex-wife and a (truly adorable) young son, so he is pretty much tied to Little Rock. After a while of living there, I realized I would simply never be happy if I too were tied there. So, I left. It was the single hardest thing I've ever done and sometimes I wonder about what might have happened. This was truly the relationship that taught me that, contrary to what the Beatles may claim, love is not all you need.

This is a little story about an incident in which he irritated the hell out of me. It's certainly not a candidate for "why my ex should rot in hell" status, but annoying nonetheless.

I am a pack a day smoker. (Sidenote: this is something RGB's Fred and I bonded over--this and Billy Joel. (Additional sidenote: the first time I typed "bonded," I accidentally wrote "boned." Not a Freudian slip, I promise RGB.)) I know, I know--gross, you're killing yourself, trashy, etc. I've heard them all and I'll quit when I finally decide for myself that I want to. I've tried to quit for other people in the past and now realize that its just too hard to do unless you want to quit for yourself.

Well, Colossus HATED that I smoke. Really, truly despised it. I'm sure he could write his own loser-ex post about my smoking. He would harp on me all the time about my smoking--and, in my defense, I did try very hard several times to quit, but just couldn't do it. He said it was nasty (true), unhealthy (true), and made me smell bad (true). It got to the point that in the last few months of our relationship, he refused to kiss me not matter how many times I brushed my teeth, used mouthwash, and showered. Now, I know I'm a smoker, so I'm mostly immune to the smell and rarely ever smell it on me (though I know its there), but can you really still smell it after all that? This is an honest question. I'm not going to be offended if you say yes. Colossus said that it came through my pores even if I showered, etc. (My God, that's really gross, now that its typed out.)

But the fact remained, I am a smoker. So, Colossus decided to switch to more devious tactics.

I always left my cigarettes in the car and never smoked at home if he was there (and never in the house, obviously), because I knew how much it upset him. After a big fight about my smoking, during which I agreed to try to quit again (I lied and made no attempt to quit, just to hide it better), he began stealing my packs of cigarettes out of my car. Because I was supposed to be trying to quit, I did not want to confront him about it and tell him to stop. So, in response, I started hiding them in different places inside the car. Under the seat, inside the piles of ever-present crap in my car, even in the compartment in the trunk for my car jack. But he always found them. I kept buying more and refusing to say anything about it, even though I knew that he obviously knew that I wasn't quitting. I have a massive stubborn streak (I am also stubborn in the fact that I insist upon thinking that my stubbornness is endearing), so confronting him would entail me acknowledging that I was lying--and I wasn't about to do that.

This went on for about two weeks. I was spending an absurd amount of money on cigarettes, since I rarely got more than about five from a pack. But apparently the way to my heart--or in this case, away from it--is through my checking account. After he found a pack hidden under my spare tire, properly screwed to the floor of my trunk and all, my cheapness overtook my stubbornness and I exploded at him. I was definitely overly confrontational about it--but, hey, I had to minimize the fact that I had been lying and try to shift as much blame as possible. He stopped stealing them, but in retrospect, he totally won. I was forced to admit that I wasn't quitting and hadn't even really tried. Of course, we both already knew that, but he made me say it out loud.

As I said before, Colossus is a good man, so most of my bad stories about him have a decent amount of bad behavior on my part. Sure, he was stealing (and being so insanely thorough in his stealing), but I was lying. Feel free to judge me. I've already come to terms with it.

Date of the Week: Heights and Sites!

2009-08-12T10:22:00.000-04:00

This week's date is going to involve some serious advanced planning, but will give you some of the best views of the city. So, start booking!

First up, the Washington Monument. You can obtain tickets for the tour if you get here early in the morning, but you're better off just ordering them online in advance. The tour is free, but the online tickets to have a small service fee. Also, they will come to you in a rather plain-looking envelope, so make sure you don't throw them out by mistake. I would take a tour later in the afternoon, maybe like around 4, that way you can make early dinner reservations at 5:30.

Make sure you arrive a little before your tour time and wait out front for the park ranger running the tour line. Once you're sent inside, you'll wait a few minutes in the marble lobby for the elevator to come back down. The ride up takes 70 seconds, which feels like forever on an elevator, especially in DC where the buildings are all short, but the tour guide will fill the time with all sorts of interesting trivia. Although, if you get the same one I did, you will cringe every time she says the name of the monument (I really hate when people pronounce the name of our first President as if it had an "R" in it).

As the tallest building in Washington, DC, the monument has amazing views. Seriously. There are windows on all four sides of the monument, and each has a handy little picture above with the important buildings labeled, so you can sound like you know what you're talking about in front of your date. Also, you will realize how flat the city actually is. Bring your camera, these are the best views you will ever see (unless you're really rich and can afford a helicopter tour). Anyway, after you check out the great views, you can take the stairs down to the museum-y part of the tour and read all about the history of the Washington Monument before getting in line to ride the elevator back down.

The ride down is the best part of the tour because, you get to see all the innards of the structure. And, trust me, this is way cooler than it sounds.

After the tour, head north on 15th Street for the second-best views of the city. I'm talking about Point of View at the newly-opened W Hotel. You will need to make dinner reservations to get in here, but you can do that on Open Table. Unfortunately, this is not the bar at the Hotel Washington you remember (and long for). No more are the days of freely walking through the lobby to the elevator to sit on the balcony, $12 martini in hand, gazing out at the monuments. OK, well, they still have expensive drinks and great views, but now they have a very closely guarded elevator. While I am not a fan of the snooty revamp of my favorite bar, I have to admit, the views are great.

So, make yourself a reservation and get up there to enjoy the views. Linger around a little after dinner and have another drink. If after dinner, you decide the reincarnation of the Hotel Washington bar is too pretentious for your liking, you can always pop next door to Ebbitt's. In fact, you should do this anyway. Even if you do have drinks at Point of View first.

Date of the Week: Garden Party!

2009-08-05T10:46:00.001-04:00

This week's date is full of fancy old-timey things, and includes plenty of time outside. Since it's still warm outside, this is a good weekend to take advantage of the great weather. Start the day off by meeting for lunch at Blue Ridge Restaurant in Glover Park. In addition to great food, Blue Ridge also offers old-timey cocktails and punch bowls. Of course, you and your date probably shouldn't drink an entire punch bowl by yourselves, so save that for when you bring your friends.

After lunch, take a walk down Wisconsin Ave to the beautiful gardens at Dumbarton Oaks (here's how). The garden entrance is located at 31st and R. The gardens don't open until 2pm, so you'll have plenty of time to get there after lunch. Admission is $8 a person, pr $5 if you're a student. There are dozens of different gardens, and they're all amazing. You can easily spend hours here. There are plenty of shaded areas, especially in the informal gardens, making the hot and muggy DC summer less miserable. Plus, it's so big, you won't feel crowded. Another bonus: you will see wildlife in the city other than rats (yucky!).

Once you're finished seeing all the gardens, it's time for a drink. And after spending all afternoon on manicured grounds of a gorgeous mansion, the usual Bud Light just isn't going to cut it.

The entrance to Dumbarton Oaks is just a few blocks away from Cafe Bonaparte. This French restaurant is known throughout DC for it's amazing champagne cocktails. And after a long day of walking, you deserve one. Or more. I won't judge you if you drink more.

Talk Dirty to Me

2009-08-03T13:50:00.000-04:00

I am the most awkward and unsexy person ever. If I try to say something dirty, it ends up just sounding funny. Most of the men I've dated are just as awkward, so the dirty talk tends to not happen in my relationships.

Fred was one of the more awkward people I've dated. Except, he never seemed to realize his own awkwardness. So, he tried to say dirty things to me. It was terrible and uncomfortable for all parties involved.

One of his favorite lines was "Ooo baby, baby!" He said it exactly like Salt-N-Pepa do in "Push It." Seriously. He even squeaked a little at the end of it. And this wasn't a one time thing. He did it all the time while we were dating. Each time, I gave him a weird look. But, he seemed completely oblivious. I'm not really even sure what he meant by this. Maybe he was complimenting me. Maybe he was trying to arouse me. Perhaps, he was just singing his favorite 90's song. I really don't know.

The thing is, whenever he looked at me and said "Ooo baby, baby!" I started imagining the rest of the song in my head (do do do do do dododododo). For some reason, thinking of this song then makes me think of the song from Revenge of the Nerds. So, instead of thinking about dirty sexy things, I'd find myself thinking "Clap your hands everybody..."

And this was about as arousing as a fat, sweaty man in a banana hammock.

Date of the Week: Putt-Putt Picnic!

2009-07-29T10:28:00.001-04:00

This week, take advantage of the DC summer by going to play putt-putt and enjoy a picnic. DC is limited in its putt-putt options. I mean, sure, there's the H Street Country Club, but playing in a dark bar really doesn't take advantage of the summer, now does it? You should still check this place out sometime though. Just not this weekend, ok? You're going on an outdoor date. You're going to Hains Point. Sure, it's not the fanciest course around, but it has its charm.

Start your day off by either packing yourself and your date a picnic, or going to the closest Chipotle and getting a couple of burritos to go. Remember to pack bottled drinks if you opted for Chipotle. You can't really put a fountain soda in your backpack. Also pack a picnic blanket, or a couple of towels. Now that you're all packed-up, you can either get in your car, or get ready for a good, long walk. I prefer walking. For you drivers out there, you're in luck -- there are a TON of free parking spaces at the East Potomac Golf Course. Also, they have real golf, if you're ever looking for somewhere to play.

Take the metro to the Smithsonian station, the head to Hains Point. Here's how. The mini golf course usually isn't very crowded -- even on weekends. Games are $6 per person. The course is well-shaded, making it a relaxing place for a fun afternoon. The course is a little old, meaning there are strange bumps that might impact your game. If you're serious about your game, that is. When I go, I usually end up goofing off by trying to knock my opponent's ball out of the way.

After putt-putt, head down to the water to enjoy the lunch you packed. I prefer the side that looks over the Potomac to Virginia (as opposed to the side that looks on to DC). It tends to be quieter. Plus, you can see planes take-off from Reagan National, and the DC Duck tour boat goes by every so often. And that's pretty awesome.

If you walked, you can stop and check out the monuments on your back home. If you drove, then you can stop and enjoy the traffic around the monuments on your way home.

Date of the Week: Hiking and Chicken!

2009-07-22T10:24:00.002-04:00

I've been getting antsy from being in the city too long, so this week, let's head 'em up, move 'em out! If you're one of the lucky Washingtonians who actually has a car, you're in luck. There are a lot of great destinations for a day trip from which you can pick. This week, I am going to suggest hiking and chicken.

Get up nice and early, pack some trail mix and plenty of water and drive out to Skyline Drive in Virginia. There is a $15 fee per car to get in, but if you think you might come back, I would suggest springing for the annual pass ($30). If you really like parks, there is an $80 annual pass that will get you in to all National Parks. There are several great trails (not to mention, amazing views) along the way. I would suggest Little Devil Stairs as a good hiking trail. It's a little intense. And a little wet. But, you can handle it. SCT's dachshund can handle it. No, really, he loves to hike! One thing to be wary of are the ticks. They will get you. And if you have thick hair like I do, they will love your head. Make sure you wear a hat and cover yourself with bugspray. Also, you will get a little dirty, so if you drive a nice car, or one you want to keep clean, bring a towel for the car ride, and a plastic bag to put your dirty shoes. Also, if your phone is like mine, you will get spotty coverage in this area. I just leave mine turned off when I go out here.

After returning from your hike, continue driving down Skyline Drive. Take it all the way to Charlottesville and reward yourself with a Caniac meal from my favorite fastfood restaurant, Raising Cane's. Sadly, this is the closest Canes to DC. I know you non-Louisiana people are probably thinking "why the hell would I go all the way to Charlottesville for chicken fingers?" Well, just trust me on this one. Once you go, you'll get it. And you will be planning many a trip back to get your fix.

Date of the Week: The Shame

2009-07-15T10:28:00.000-04:00

My boyfriend loves Harry Potter. I know I'm going to offend some people by saying this, but I think it's really lame for a man in his 30's to get into children's books and movies. However, being the awesome girlfriend that I am, I will go with him to the theatre to see this crappy movie. I will need a lot of booze to tolerate this.

So, I will start the night out with dinner at the CommonWealth Gastropub in Columbia Heights. It fits the whole British theme. Also, they have beer. Lots of beer. And the hearty food necessary to eat in order to consume lots of beer. I would set aside more time that usual to eat to account for all the boozing you'll want to do.

Anyway, the restaurant is next to the Columbia Heights metro, so it's just a short ride on the green or yellow line to the Regal Gallery Place movie theatre. Chinatown tends to get insanely crowded, so I would suggest purchasing tickets ahead of time. Also, even with your tickets purchased early, you'll still want to get to the theatre early enough to get decent seats. Seriously. I went to see "The Hangover" a few weeks ago and ended up getting stuck in the back row that has about 1/3 the leg space. My knees were pressed against the seat in front of me the whole time. And the little brat in that seat felt the need to keep rocking her seat back, jamming my knees. The little brat next to her (in front of my boyfriend) had the audacity to turn around and yell at him to not kick her seat, despite the fact the only thing moving was her seat as she rocked it. I hope she fell in a hole. She was a brat. But, I digress.

After sitting through the movie, you'll want to get up and stretch your legs, so take a walk down to Elephant & Castle (or metro if you're feeling lazy) to resume boozing while keeping with the British theme.

Who's gonna drive you home?

2009-07-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

O/G is five weeks older than me. Most of the time we were dating, it was barely noticeable, but there were a few age-restricted activities that always seemed to fall in those five weeks that made life complicated. One of such was renting a car.

As everyone knows, if you rent a car before you're 25, you are tagged with all sorts of extra fees. It's grossly unfair because I was no bit a better driver on my 25th birthday than I was the day before, but it's based on accident data and I understand a business has to make a decision about risk so whatever.

O/G's 25th birthday was on a week day in early April. I planned to fly to Georgia the following weekend to celebrate. The previous time I had visited, I had flown to Jacksonville, rented a car (taking the hit on extra fees), and driven 90 minutes up I-95 to his house (it had been cheaper to do this than fly directly to Savannah and I was visiting for a long weekend so the drive wasn't a big deal). O/G really liked that I had a rental car because it meant he didn't have to put miles on his car and we could go out to the bars and cab home and then retrieve the other car the next morning. He liked it so much that he requested I do it again for his birthday. And by requested, I mean demanded in his whiny-baby voice.

The smart thing to do would have been for him to rent the car in his name, as by the time I arrived in Savannah on Friday afternoon, he would have already been 25 and thus wouldn't have to pay the extra fees. I suggested this as I was planning my travel but he didn't want to do this. His reasoning? It was his birthday so he didn't want to pay AND it was my turn to visit him and therefore my turn to pay for the travel costs.

I offered to write him a check for the amount of the car rental (since the fee itself usually has to be charged to a credit card in the driver's name), but he didn't like that idea because he didn't feel comfortable letting me drive a car that was rented in his name. Plus, in his words "the travel thing is your problem this time babe". Sort of like how I made it his probably to get him to and from the airport when he came to visit DC or how I left him to deal with his problem when his flight home got canceled during a snow storm. But that's probably why our relationship soured: I never made anything his problem and therefore he did not know how to solve his own problems.

In the end, I rented a car and paid the extra fees and spent the weekend driving him around on his errands because he didn't want to put miles on his car. After all, it was his birthday and I was a complete pushover back then.

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental

2009-07-10T15:27:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, my sister stumbled upon a website called Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry where girls (and I suppose guys) can sell the jewelry their exes gave them. I had a complete "why didn't I think of that?" moment.

Over my years of dating, I have accumulated many pieces of jewelry and until I dated O/G, I had only returned one piece, a fraternity lavaliere, because I couldn't really wear the letters of someone I wasn't dating. Until I dated O/G, I never had an ex ask for his jewelry back. This includes several pieces of nice jewelry (Tiffany, David Yurman), several pieces of fine jewelry (diamond earrings, pearls, nice watches) and a decently-sized engagement ring, in addition to the other, more sentimental pieces. Of course, like many things, O/G was different about jewelry.

When O/G broke up, he sent me an itemized list of the jewelry he wanted back. I'm sorry, I meant he called my mother with an itemized list of the jewelry he wanted back because I wouldn't take his calls. We had been dating on and off for five years so one would imagine this list would be fairly extensive and it probably would have been, had he bought me jewelry that I liked from the beginning of our relationship. See, O/G spent the first three-quarters of our relationship buying me jewelry that he thought I should like, rather than the pieces I actually did like. And it wasn't that he didn't know what I would like: he'd take me shopping, I would pick out pieces that I liked, he would pick out things he'd like, I would reject his choices and three days later he would present me with one of the rejected pieces.

It was a real struggle to work rose gold heart necklaces with matching earrings into my wardrobe, but he would whine and complain if I arrived at his place not wearing something he gave me.

Finally, after a particularly big fight, he randomly started buying me jewelry I would actually wear. And I did wear these pieces regularly.

Those were the pieces that appeared on the itemized list. I have no idea what he did with a David Yurman bracelet and necklace and a pair of John Hardy earrings that he wouldn't do with the rose gold heart set and Tin Cup-style pearl illusion necklace. All the jewelry he gave me cost about the same, so if he just wanted to pawn the stuff, he should have asked for all of it back. All of it was long past its return date so it's not like he could bring it back to the jeweler.

I'm starting to think he saved it for his next girlfriend, which is creepy. And, judging from her Facebook picture, she's more the down-home rose gold heart set type.

Date of the Week: Moon Landing!

2009-07-08T10:50:00.001-04:00

For the month of July, the National Air and Space Museum will be celebrating the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11. NASM is one of my favorite museums in Washington, and this is the perfect chance to go check it out. The museum is open until 7:30 most days in the summer, with a few exceptions. So, why not plan to go a little later in the afternoon. Maybe around 4 or 5. Catch a show in the planetarium, then check out all the Apollo 11 artifacts, including the command module, Columbia, and some lunar rocks.

After the museum, head up 7th street to Rocket Bar in Chinatown. This is the point where I should remind you to wear shoes you can walk a few blocks in. I am not going to say "comfortable walking shoes" because, that brings to mind visions of ugly tourist sandals. Cute shoes can be comfortable. Please find a pair that are. And wear those.

Anyway, back to Rocket Bar. Grab a few drinks and challenge your date to a game of skee ball (my favorite!) or shuffle board. If you're into more serious bar games, they also have pool tables and dart boards. But, really, where's the excitement in playing generic bar games? Save it for your buddies.

After a few drinks, you can keep with the space theme and take a cab up to Georgetown for dinner at Paper Moon. If you're going on a Friday or Saturday, you might want to make reservations beforehand. There is a lot of foot traffic in Georgetown on the weekends and restaurants tend to fill up pretty fast.

This is the Reason You Couldn't Get a Date

2009-07-07T09:42:00.003-04:00

Back in high school, I was asked out on my very first "real" date by a man we'll call Brutus. This was early enough in high school that neither one of us could drive, so we had to rely on parental transportation. (Oh the shame...)

Brutus was a soccer jock, kinda pasty pale skin, and red hair to match. My boyfriend is a redhead now, but wasn't this pale. Brutus also had oddly shaped freckles that seemed to be spattered across his face and body with no particular rhyme, reason, or symmetry that I could see.

Nevertheless, I was excited for my first date. My parents were too, which is always embarrassing... but at least mine didn't show up with a camera like his did. No, it wasn't prom, homecoming, or any other dress-up event that would have actually warranted and been justified in having a picture to commemorate its occurrence. I had no idea where we were headed on this date of ours, but I was ready to get going after the tenth photo.

Clearly, the date was starting off right. Brutus' parents drove us to the local bowling alley, setting up shop just two lanes down the way - as if that was far enough to give us space without actually bowling with us. It might have actually fooled us, except his Dad would cheer everytime Brutus hit more than three or four pins. On the bright side, at least they didn't offer to put us on the bumper lane.

After we finished our two games, his parents drove us back to his place for a movie. Once there, they actually left us pretty much alone... and I look back on it and realize how good I had it when they were around.

It was more than just a lack of chemistry that kept me from ever seeing Brutus again. It really came down to self-preservation. Brutus was a dirty minded boy. The sorts of things he was asking me to do (or saying we could do down the road) are things even today as a grown professional woman I would never consider. I was shocked! I wasn't completely sheltered growing up, but I sure as hell wasn't prepared for some of his suggestions of what we should spend some time doing.

1. If I were to ever have had sex with him, leaving pets in the room was never something I would consciously plan for. He actually proposed that we might be more "excited" if "someone... even an animal..." was watching.
2. I don't care how much you like fixing cars or the smell of vehicular residue, but pouring things on my body that you would find in a car is not even remotely something to suggest if you expect an affirmative response.
3. I don't like the idea of being tied up or restricted - and bungee cords is the absolute weirdest fetish I have heard to accomplish this task to this very day.

You may be wondering how in the world this conversation came up. I was wondering the same thing! I asked him what movie we were going to watch and he suggested we "talk" a bit first. At first I was pleased, but when he introduced the subject.. well I was no longer happy with the situation.

Needless to say, I was disgusted and disturbed. I made a solemn promise to myself to never go on another date with Brutus.

When Brutus first called to ask me out again, I simply said I was busy. In the next couple calls, I wasn't feeling well. After that, it became quite the production to come up with excuses on why I couldn't go out with him anymore. He called - every other day - for three months. I think back on it and I'm pretty sure it was because no girl would ever go out with him again. That would explain his parents taking so many pictures - I guess they were as shocked as I am now that he ever got a girl to go out with him.'

Of COURSE I would never go out with him again! I mean, really?

At some point, Brutus did figure out that I wasn't ever going to be "available" for him again. He took the "Breakup" badly and he hated me for the rest of high school. He badmouthed me and even tried to convince guys who I later dated that they "could do better" than me. Well, if by doing better, he meant someone who would play along with his sick little fetish games - in HIGH SCHOOL - then yes, there were far better women than me out there. They were called tramps.

Skid Row Bums

2009-07-03T10:47:00.006-04:00

Fred had a relative whom his family ridiculed for a vareity of reasons. One of the most ridiculous was the fact that, despite being well past potty-training age (able-bodied and of normal intelligence), she still would not wipe her own rear.

Fred, on the other hand, was in his mid-twenties and did wipe his own rear, however the responsibility proved to be too much for him. Despite years of practice, he still had not mastered the art of properly cleaning himself. I don't mean to single out Fred. Shrek was just as bad about this. This is more of a general rant.

Dating Shrek was terrible because every single pair of boxers he owned had...evidence of wear. And Fred was so bad that every single surface in his apartment that he had ever sat on smelled like what comes out of one's bottom. It was absolutely foul. I couldn't sit on his sofa without smelling poo.

It just completely blows my mind that the men I used to date would wear roomy boxers and still manage to get their butt juice on them, while I wear thongs -- underwear designed to go up my ass -- and they still are stain-free.

Both of these men tried to defend their wiping skills, claiming that men just have leaky butts. Um, no, not all men do. In fact, in my experience I have found that most do not.

Just to make sure I am not dating the exceptions, I asked some girlfriends about their experience with men having this problem. Then, I asked some men if they personally had this problem. My conclusion is that this is not a normal condition. If your butt is leaking, you really need to go to the doctor and have that problem addressed. Your underwear should not be covered in stains. Your furniture should not smell.

Seriously, boys, you are disgusting. Go to a doctor.

Date of the Week: Kayaking!

2009-07-01T10:45:00.001-04:00

My first job was working at a boat rental center, so I have a thing for small watercraft. If paddle boats in the tidal basin are a little too dorky for your liking, you can always try kayaking in the Potomac. For this, I would recommend wearing something casual. Shorts and a t-shirt. You'll get a little wet from paddling, and we all know how clean the Potomac is, so don't wear white.

For $10 an hour, you and your date can get a double kayak from the Thompson Boat Center. If they're out of boats, you can try Jack's, which is up the river a little more. They're a little bit more expensive though.

Some days, there is more of a current than others, but regardless, I would suggest rowing upstream first. Once you get past the key bridge, there is a lot to see. It is surprisingly calm for being just a few hundred yards away from the hustle and bustle of Georgetown. The Three Sisters Rock formation marks the farthest point navigable by larger boats, so after you get past there, you can relax and just drift for a bit. I've seen a lot of people kayak up here then bird-watch. If that's your thing, go for it. Otherwise, just sit back and enjoy the scenery.

Some people BYOB on their kayaks and crack one open at this point. I am going to be a nerd here and say don't do that. You should not operate any watercraft, motorized or not, under the influence. But, definitely bring some water, it gets a little hot on the water sometimes.

The good thing about rowing against the current to start off with is that you can coast back downriver to the boat center. Of course, be mindful of the other boats in the water, you may want to stay closer to the shore so you're out of the way of motorboat operators who may have had a few too many.

After returning your kayak, continue your day of river fun by grabbing an outside table overlooking the Potomac at Nick's for lunch and a few drinks. The Georgetown Waterfront is a great place for people-watching and is a very chill environment, especially during the day. It will be a nice break after all that rowing.

Nitwit Picnic

2009-06-30T12:19:00.000-04:00

We've all been picky eaters at some point in our lives. My sister doesn't eat anything that is white. My fiance doesn't eat seafood (or vegetables unless I disguise them). I don't eat Chinese or Thai food. We all have our quirks, but if we were seated in an average, American restaurant we could piece together a complete meal, perhaps with some minor modifications (hold the mayo, etc).

Officer/Gentleman took picky eating to an extreme. He could not put together a complete meal at one restaurant, in part due to a sensitive stomach (everything made him sick but that is its own separate, disgusting post), but primarily due to obsessive eating habits. Dining with him was akin to a scavenger hunt: we needed a fruit, a vegetable, a source of protein and some creatine.

It would start on a Saturday morning after he got out of bed (around 11 AM). He would decide instead of patronizing the nearby Waffle House (it made him sick), or the coffee shop (it wasn't healthy), we would drive 20 minutes to the nearest Smoothie King for a delightful morning smoothie (with added supplements).

Now, I have been known to enjoy the occasional smoothie but I need two things for my first meal of the day: coffee and substantial solid food. Otherwise, I am weak, caffeine-deprived and cranky. This becomes even more important after a night of late-night drinking (O/G's favorite activity), because you can add "hungover" to the list of less-than-pleasant traits I possessed. You'd think after dating me for four years, he would have figured this out, but that would mean paying attention to someone besides himself.

So after we got a smoothie, we would head next door to Panera Bread for a cup of chicken noodle soup. But that's all we could get because everything else made him sick. If I dared to order anything else, he would tell me how unhealthy it was (because drinking an 800-calorie meal-replacement smoothie with god knows what kind of muscle-building powder in it as your first course is downright nutritious). I could, however, order a cup of coffee, provided I wanted to listen to him complain about how expensive it was.

Then, it was time for protein, and his favorite form of protein was a chicken sandwich from Zaxby's (on the other side of town). So away we'd go to Zaxby's for round three, where we would eat chicken sandwiches (but no fries because they made him sick).

It was like a cross between a progressive dinner party and the Bataan Death March.

From time to time, we go out to dinner at a restaurant (just one restaurant). He would usually concede, and even let me pick the place, but then once there, he would do weird things like order potato skins with a side of smashed cauliflower. This would confuse the waitress to no end as she pondered which of those selections was to be served alongside my entree.

For someone with stomach issues, he sure did eat weird things. Perhaps because by "stomach", he meant "control".

Psychological Case Study: Fred

2009-06-30T10:39:00.001-04:00

In the tradition of making psychological judgements about my exes based on their care for pets, I bring you Fred.

Fred had a pet budgie in college. His name was Buddy. Then a hurricane came. No, not that one. So, Fred decided that he would take Buddy with him while he evacuated. I guess his deadbeat roommates didn't want the hassle of carrying the bird around.

Before we left, I explained to Fred that it was a risky idea since birds are very sensitive to climate and pressure changes. I noted that my friend growing up had had a budgie and that they had to keep it away from the front door, as drafts could eventually kill the bird. I even suggested he find someone else to take the bird, knowing that a car trip was risky, especially with the way Fred smokes in his car and opens the windows most of the time he is driving.

When we loaded Buddy into the car, I buckled his cage in, removed any toys that could fly around and possible hit him, and covered the cage with a sheet to protect him from drafts. Fred started to open the windows, and I stopped him, explaining (AGAIN) that the draft is not good for the bird.

Five minutes into the trip, Fred rolled down the window and started smoking, blowing the air from the window and the smoke toward Buddy's cage. I told him not to do that. I explained that he would need to limit his smoking breaks to a couple times a day as to not make his budgie sick. Of course he did not listen, and spent the entire trip chain smoking, letting the wind and smoke fly into Buddy's cage.

I don't want to go into details, but little Buddy did die on that trip. Fred's selfishness caused him to irreparably harm his pet.

It is unfair to accept the responsibility to care for something when you have no intention of actually doing so. At first, this event seems to illustrate Fred being absentminded. But, given that I had told him several times not to open the window, it really just shows his utter selfishness and insistence on putting his own wants over the needs of others. Once again, Fred's treatment of his pet should have been a clear sign of how he would eventually act toward me.

Date of the Week: The Zoo!

2009-06-24T10:35:00.001-04:00

When I was in college, my animal behavior courses meant spending long hours doing research at the zoo. As a result, I am a total nerd about zoos and the best way to win me over is to take me on a date to one. Of course, you don't have to be a nerd to enjoy the zoo -- and it's a great place to take a date for a casual, cheap and fun day.

The National Zoo is on a steep hill, so you will certainly get a work-out looking at all the animals. So, I'd recommend starting off your day with a hearty breakfast from Open City, which is next to the Woodley Park Metro Station. Unless you get there super-early, you'll probably have to wait a little bit for a table. This will give you a chance to talk with your date and find out all about his background. I love the breakfast at Open City. My favorite menu item is the Chai Tea Waffle, and my boyfriend loves the omelets. The environment here is ultra-casual -- you can wear just about anything. The restaurant gets pretty crowded, but the tables are spaced so you won't feel like you have people sitting on top of you.

After breakfast, it's just a short walk up the hill to the National Zoo. The thing I love most about the National Zoo is that, like other Smithsonian Museums in Washington, it is free. Make sure you check out the outdoor exhibits at the Bird House. These tend to be less crowded than a lot of the other exhibits. And the beautiful scenery makes for a great place to steal a kiss. The good thing about a zoo date is that there is plenty of time to talk to your date, and the animals make great conversation starters. Alternatively, if you're not in the mood to chat, the animals are a good distraction, so silence will no e awkward. Basically, whatever your conversation style, you will be comfortable at the zoo.

All the exhibits at the zoo are worth checking out. You may have to wade through crowds for more popular ones (the pandas). You'll definitely want to take a break from the heat by slipping into some of the indoor exhibits, like the Small Mammal House and the Reptile Discovery Center. After some walking, grab an ice cream from the concession stand, or a vending machine and sit in the shade by the sea lions.

A day at the zoo is a unique and fun date that is a good change of pace from the usual dinner and drinks outing. It's cheap enough for an intern without feeling like a budget date.

Check Him Out : Old Ebbitt Grill

2009-06-22T15:52:00.000-04:00

First of all, if anyone out there has the Lisa Frank "Check Him Out" picture, let me know. I can't seem to find it anywhere on the Internet, which is truly a shame.

Anyway, on to business. Old Ebbitt Grill is across the street from the White House and the Treasury. I absolutely love the back bar at Ebbitt's. This is the type of bar you wouldn't be ashamed to take your parents to. Details such as hooks under the bar for coats and a heavy lip on the edge of the bar to prevent drinks from being knocked-off really give this place a clean, welcoming feel. Turn-of-the-century details adorn this restaurant, including some of the most interesting knick-knacks you've ever seen. This is the type of place you'd imagine your great-grandparents going for a drink. Everything about it screams "classic." So, naturally, the type of men you can expect to meet here are, well, classic.

Ebbitts attracts a crowd of lawyer and lobbyist types, mainly in their 30's. The best time to meet men is at happy hour during the week. If you're an independent woman who needs time for her own career and social obligations, this is the place to meet your man. The career-focused men here work long hours, meaning if you snag one, you'll have to be willing to accept only seeing him a couple of times a week. If you're the type of woman who wants her boyfriend to be constantly present, look somewhere else. The men here are the smart, sophisticated, politically-savvy types you'd expect to find in DC. Another perk to meeting men here: the male-to-female ratio is stacked in your favor, ladies. Plus, these guys don't go out much, so if you're a cute girl in her 20's (even if you're only DC cute), you're going to get a lot of attention at Ebbitt's happy hour.

To meet a man at Ebbitt's, come after work later in the week. Wear your cutest work clothes (something that is chic, but still professional), bring a couple of girlfriends, and a lot of business cards. If you get there a little early, you can secure seats at the bar and chat it up with guys as they come by to order drinks.

New Features

2009-06-21T04:08:00.004-04:00

In the interest of putting a more positive spin on dating, we've decided to add two new features to LoserEx.

First, there will be Date of the Week which I will try to post each Wednesday (that way you guys have time to find your date for the weekend). In this feature, I will make a suggestion for an inexpensive, fun date in Washington, DC. I'm going to try to avoid things like dinner and drinks, since I feel like we all go on way to many of those dates.

The next feature will be Check Him Out. This will be a less regular feature -- maybe once every three weeks or so. Check Him Out will review local places (mainly bars) in terms of meeting men. I will evaluate what type of man frequents various places and what type of woman should go to these places to meet men. On a related note, if you have the Lisa Frank "Check Him Out" picture (for which this feature was named), let me know. This picture is the best thing ever and would make a nice addition to this feature.

And, yes, there are still many more stories to come about the losers I've dated.

Psychological Case Study: Shrek

2009-06-18T13:47:00.006-04:00

It is said that serial killers usually have a history of abusing animals. I am not accusing any of my exes of being serial killers, but I strongly believe the way one treats animals is a reflection of what kind of person he or she is.

In that vein, I strongly believe that the psychological problems of my exes can be expressed in anecdotes about their treatment of animals. This will be the first case study in a series about my exes.

As a sorority initiation gift, my big sis gave me a beta fish. It was super-awesome. I named it Captain Ron and loved it dearly. When the end of the semester came, I asked Shrek if I could take a fish on a plane or if I should ask someone who lives locally to board my beloved pet for the summer. His response: "You could put some bleach in the water and kill it."

Clearly, I had no desire to kill my pet. The question was how to make it live through the summer. For the record, I left it with a classmate who lived in town. My fish was alive and well when I returned from summer break. She even generously upgraded his bowl to a self-filtering tank.

On a similar note, Shrek had a dog back home. He kept it outside, year round. Even though the place he lived was known for being particularly cold. One day, he got off the phone with his mom and without emotion declared "I no longer have a dog." His parents had put the dog down. Not because it was terminally ill, or fatally wounded. They put it down because they didn't feel like having a dog anymore.

In both the dog and the fish case, he proved that he was comfortable killing things that were no longer convenient to have around. This inability to feel compassion for living things or respect for life should have been a clear indicator of what was to come in our relationship. I suppose I should be happy I got out before his aggression resulted in me being like to dog and the fish.

Screaming Infidelities

2009-05-19T10:30:00.007-04:00

I'll be the first to admit that my moral compass does not always point true north. However, there are things that even I wouldn't do. Being the "other woman" is one of them.

Shrek had an ex. I'm going to call her Vikki. He painted the picture that she was crazy. Maybe she was. He carried Vikki's senior picture around in his wallet. At first I figured that he just never got around to taking it out. Then I realized that she was a senior after he had started college, so he would have gotten it after they had broken up. The whole time we were dating, the picture stayed in his wallet. I should also add that she wasn't really very pretty. Not that it matters to the story. It just matters to me. Grossly enough, a flirty picture of his 12 year-old cousin also maintained residence in his wallet the entire time we were dating.

One day, I finally got a little annoyed with the wallet picture issue and asked him why he still carried it. He told me Vikki would get mad if it wasn't there and she checked every time he was home. Um, why was Vikki even checking his wallet? Why the hell does she care if an ex has her picture or not? Weird.

Anyway, I tried not to think about Vikki, since she was in the boonie town Shrek was from, and we were thousands of miles away from that place. There were times when I suspected he never broke up with Vikki, that she didn't even know about me. But I wanted to trust him, so I would convince myself that was not happening. I convinced myself that she knew I existed and respected that I was dating her ex.

Well, I was half right.

Shrek mentioned a conversation with Vikki that took place online. And from his description, it sounded inappropriate. I pried for more information, but he flipped out and told me it was none of my business.

Well, of course this made me want to know about the conversation that much more. So, when I got to his room, I checked his chat log. In front of him. And wow. I normally do not ever condone spying on your boyfriend, but this time, it was totally warranted.

It started off innocently enough...

Vikki: Hey!!!!
Shrek: Hey
Vikki: How are you?
Shrek: Good, how are you?

Then, it got shady...

Vikki: I'm great. Are you still dating that girl?
Shrek: yeah
Vikki: Are you faithful? ;-)

What. The. Fuck.

His answer was basically a coy "no," but that's not nearly as interesting as the fact she would even ask this. I mean, where the hell is this even acceptable?

To me, this is like asking "Do you still have a dog? Do you still feed it?" In my mind, being faithful to someone is a required and assumed part of dating them.

This girl was desperately trying to steal my boyfriend. Who the hell does that? I mean, really, does she think that some guy who bangs her on the side will eventually start dating her and they will actually have a healthy relationship that does not involve banging other sluts on the side?

That's fucking delusional. Vikki, Shrek, where ever you two are, I hope you end up together. You deserve each other.

Quirkiness is Not a Star Quality

2009-05-04T21:11:00.001-04:00

Remember how your mom used to tell you that certain things build character? Typically referring to some kind of hardship that truly you should never have had to endure: mowing the lawn, going to one of your parent's friends homes when you could have been out playing, breaking your arm, etc.

Unfortunately, none of these prepared you for quirky habits of guys you would later date. Believe me, none of these things build character - at least not the kind you want built. The TV channel USA's new slogan is "character fantasy," where television actors have strange habits they want you to emulate, or form your own to be shared on nationally broadcast TV shows.

But quirkiness has it's price.

Example 1: Deigo walks on his tip-toes. EVERYWHERE. You didn't really notice it until you saw him walk barefoot. At least a few times I thought he was about to fall forward but he caught himself again and kept walking. Even in high school, Deigo was called the tip-toe bandit. He played football. Apparently that made sense in the context of the game, but either way, he's pretty proud of it.

Walking on tip-toes, constantly... well you look a little odd, but for the most part its unnoticable and the kind of quirky that makes people laugh, not cringe.

Example 2:

Neanderthal and I rode to school together in high school. I drove since I had a car and a parking permit for the lot. What drove me crazy, and was, quite frankly very odd, was that he would rock forward and back in the passenger seat. Music wouldn't even be playing and he would rock. It had no rythym to speak of, just the back and forth, back and forth... like a kid on a rocking horse. There never even seemed to be a purpose!

Rocking with no express purpose, need, or motivation... freakin odd.

Example 3:

Sasquatch had a very disconcerting evening ritual. He would remove his necklace, which had a medallion with a creepy symbol of some sort. It had character, the kind I like. What I did NOT like was the weird thing he did with it.

After taking the necklace off, he would tap it three times on the beside table, then lay it in a circle. Next, he would take the small book next to his bed, which I believe was a journal of some sort. He would:

Open it,
Read a passage
Close the book
Touch it to his forehead
Place it back down on the table.

W.
T.
F.

I don't like to wonder if the guy I'm dating is a member of the occult. Therefore, don't proceed to learn any strange rituals and then NOT explain them when asked. The least Sasquatch could do was assuage my fears that the Devil was going to get me.

Lesson learned? Don't be too quirky. There's a fine line between cute, odd, and just plain loser.

Fred Exposes Himself to Many Things

2009-05-04T09:18:00.000-04:00

Fred had a penchant for exposing himself. It was ridiculous.

I know guys seem to think exposing themselves is hilarious. It's not. It's especially not funny when it happens all the freaking time. If I were truly petty, I would tell you how embarrassingly small his junk is and that he was most likely just doing it to try to feel some sort of acceptance for his not-so-well-endowed member. But, I'm not petty. So, I will not tell everyone that he was lacking in his pants.

Fred constantly would be the guy at parties, social gatherings, dinners or study sessions who felt the need to pull his junk out of his pants and wait for someone to notice. It was completely childish. It was completely disgusting. And it completely alienated people. The worst part is, this behavior was not limited to the privacy of his own house parties. He did it everywhere.

I recall one particular incident in the parking garage in which he realized his jorts were slipping down his waist, so he decided just to push them all the way down and shuffle with them around his ankles. And, yes, he was going commando that day.

I recall another (post-college) incident in which he decided to return from the bathroom at a party my friend was throwing sans pants. In a room full of people he had just met. If he hadn't ruined his chance of making friends that night earlier, he certainly had after exposing himself. Not to mention, it was completely humiliating for me to have my boyfriend expose himself to the first people I had met after moving to a new city.

Of course, there are other stories I have heard about Fred exposing himself, but I did not experience them first hand. Since I am not here to spread rumors, I will not bring them up. But, trust me, Fred's privates have been seen by more people than Jenna Jameson's.

I could go on forever about stories of Fred's junk. But, really, they're pretty much all the same, just different places, different people. I honestly do not understand the fascination men have with their own genitals. Look guys, they're really not all that interesting. And we really don't want to see it. Women are not turned on by you showing yourself at formal events.

Fred, keep it in your pants.

Twitter Hijacked!

2009-04-26T22:13:00.003-04:00

Hey folks,

Our Twitter account was hijacked by some Arizona "COP" who is old and heinous looking. We hope he croaks.

RGB and BJA.

Update: We got back in. We deleted him. Stay tuned for a new twitter!

Update: New Twitter is up and running. Sidebar now has the correct address.

Requiem for My Love Life

2009-04-26T13:05:00.000-04:00

Fred decided one day that he wanted to watch "Requiem for a Dream." Since no one owned this movie on DVD (it is far too depressing for most people to want to watch more than once), he decided to go rent it from the local Blockbuster. This was located next door to the Circle K, where he went every single day to buy cigarettes, so it seemed like it would be easy to take it back after two days (this was before the whole 'no late fee' thing).

Well, I suppose taking the movie back managed to slip his mind every day for two months. Until one day when I was in his apartment and one of his roommates commented that the movie had been sitting there forever. Another roommate said that Fred didn't really care about bringing it back because it was on RGB's account. Fred laughed at this. The part that pissed me off was the fact that I know he had probably said this to his roommates earlier. He really thought it would be quite funny to stick me with an outrageous bill for his laziness.

But, I was the one who would get the last laugh.

"I don't have a Blockbuster account." I casually said. "So, it must have been on Fred's."

At that point, Fred screamed a word I will not put on here and immediately ran out to take the DVD back.

Funny how it was a game to not take it back when it meant sticking me with the bill. But as soon as it involved him, he was out the door before even bothering to put on clothes he didn't sleep in.

A week later, his parents called regarding the bill and I got to hear him lie to them by saying he returned that movie the day after he got it and it must be a mistake on their end.

Well, I've Never Been to Spain...

2009-04-23T21:56:00.002-04:00

...But I have had creepy older men hit on me.

When I was 18 and living in New Orleans, I was walking out of a movie theatre downtown with some girlfriends to find a cab. A drunk man who was old enough to be my father comes running across the street to our group.

He approaches me and in slurred speech asks "Hey, did you hear about the amateur strip contest at [redacted]?"

Not sure what to make of it, I responded honestly that, no, I had not heard about such an event.

"Well, you should have gone! You would have won for sure!"

Aside from the obvious old man creep factor, I should also mention that I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops. Hardly anything even remotely sexy. Especially considering that there were countless other women dressed in much sexier clothing around me.

He then proceeded to try to entice me to enter the next contest, telling me that there was a big cash prize for the winner. He was apparently oblivious to the fact that I was not comfortable having this conversation and was frantically trying to hail a cab to get away from him.

Weirdo.

But, in all honesty, there's no way in hell I would ever win a stripping contest. I am way too clumsy. Me getting on a stripper pole would end with a trip to the emergency room.

You Make Me Sick

2009-04-22T12:19:00.005-04:00

Social norms across countries are randomly different (nothing new there), occasionally surprising (which can be fun), and far-too-often down-right disgusting. There are just some things that I've experienced in other countries that were beyond my normal acceptance of social differences, and crossed the line into - you're still disgusting in my book.

Madrid, Spain.

On a trip to Spain last year, my family and I stopped in Madrid. As I was also in the midst of the leasing process on a new apartment, I made frequent trips to a local computer cafe to take care of my business at home.

I've accepted that there are men and women out there who get their jollies from exploring illicit sites on the internet. I'd even partly prepared myself to experience such a thing while I was abroad. However, I was utterly floored to find that, even in Spain, this was considered "ok" enough to be used as a flirtation method.

I went into the cafe, ready to send another nasty email to the landlords who were being a$$s about the whole moving ordeal, when I noticed the 30ish year old man next to me was looking at porn. I quickly averted my eyes and continued working. But the man kept smiling at me! When he said something in Spanish, I could only grasp but a few words - enough to know he was calling me pretty and something about pictures. Maybe you'll come to the same conclusion as me, but all I could think of was... disgusting.

I mean really. Who sees a girl in a random cafe and thinks to themselves... well I'm looking at porn maybe she's into it. I don't care where you live or what language you speak, there's a line there! We weren't in the red light district, I was not dressed provacatively, and I certainly wasn't trying to get his attention.

Perhaps this guy isn't quite a "loser-ex" by our standard definiton, but it only appears that way since I refused to pose and/or go with him anywhere anyway. Had I done so, I have no doubt that he would have ended up on this blog. Fortunately, I have class.

Ladies, don't lower yourself to date a man who would ask you to pose for porn. Especially if he doesn't speak your language and is doing so in a public cafe, proudly "showing" why he wants you to do so.

Fred's Dirty Laundry

2009-04-21T14:34:00.012-04:00

In college, one thing that annoyed me was when people using the laundry rooms would not promptly remove their clothes from the machines after the cycles. Now, I understand being a few minutes late, but several hours? Come on. Often, I would see laundry sit in machines, finished, for the entire time it took my clothes to be washed, dried and folded. This was especially annoying when there was a shortage of machines.

The Resident Director of my dorm junior year apparently felt my pain on the matter and plastered signs all over the laundry room threatening to donate unattended clothes to charity. Overkill? Probably. Passive-aggressive? Definitely. But, I understood her underlying concern.

Well, Fred did not. He was one of those loath-able laundry leavers. And not just the extra hour variety. He was, by far, the worst laundry leaver I have ever encountered. Frequently, he would put his clothes in the washing machine, go to class for a few hours, move them to the dryer, go out drinking, and then take them out of the laundry room the next morning. And this was when he was on top of the laundry situation. Usually, this process would take much longer. Laundry time was frequently a multi-day event for Fred. This was particularly disturbing considering he did not even start the laundry process until he had been forced to go commando for at least 4 days.

Well, after one particularly long laundry run (five days, to be exact), he returned to the laundry room to find his clothes, and the suitcase in which he brought them to the laundry room, gone. Apparently at some point during those five days, the Resident Director had made good on her promise.

This particular batch of clothes included such gems as: the pink parachute pants, the yellow button down tie-dye shirt, and a plethora of Hawaiian shirts.

Needless to say, I was not sorry for his loss.

Kissin' You Off

2009-04-20T17:48:00.004-04:00

When I was in high school, I was shy and not particularly "lucky" in love. I had never kissed a boy. I know! Some girls were all over it in middle school. Not me, I didn't even get my first kiss until my 16th birthday party.

There are two stories here, with two entirely different goals by melding them into one post, besides the fact they took place over the same event.

1. Boys are dumb in high school, and they make things up to match the "reality" of what they envision their lives to be.

2. Boys are cruel in high school, not realizing the implications of their actions, nor how easily they'll become as targets of catty-fun blogs like this in the future of the girls they cross.

So here we go. We'll call these two gentleman Meathead Dumb and Meathead Mean.

Both Meatheads, along with some of their friends and a few other high school hot shots, were invited to my 16th birthday party. Sad as it was, I had it at my place with my parents chaperoning. I realize now what a mistake that was, but honestly the rents were pretty cool with the whole thing. They even splurged for the margarita mix - sans tequila unfortunately.

That didn't stop Meathead Dumb, though. Most teenagers, even with the most juvenile and naive of brains, realize that margaritas mix must have tequila added to reach any sort of alcoholic content. MD decided, in his infinite high school wisdom, to chug the entire bottle of the mix - again, sans alcohol. Yet, he must not have known this, as he yelled at the top of his lungs to the entire party, "I'M WASTEDDDDDD!"

Umm, no MD. You're not. There's no alcohol in that. I wish I could tell you otherwise because I'd have been launched to high school stardom right then, but there's not and I never did.

So, moment to laugh at the idiocy that we women had to choose from in high school. You know you had at least one of these dimwits. Don't lie.

Meanwhile, Meathead Mean decided we should all play truth or dare. This was high school - so yes, of course I thought this was a brilliant idea. Up until I chose truth. MM asked me how far I had gone with a guy. To my own credit, I was honest. To my discredit, I was dumb enough to ask if hugging or holding hands was farther. (I was so naive in high school, I really was. I won't even pretend I was remotely cool.)

Later, MM took me aside on my trampoline out back under the stars... I'll let you awww at the effect that had on my cute little birthday-lovin self. MM said, "So... you've really never even kissed a guy?" I blushed and I think I left it at that. Like I wanted to admit that again! So MM decided to give me a birthday present, and he kissed me. My first kiss!

Yet, there's a reason MM is called mean. Monday at school, MM denied having even attended my party, let alone kissing me. My friends apparently had a pretty big mouth about what had happened that night. But the thing that made me really angry was the denial. I'd be less offended if he just said he got drunk and made out with someone he shouldn't have.

(Note: I've made myself sound somehow unfortunate looking - I'm not. I'm not super hot, but I'm reasonably attractive - I avoided the ugly stick and the awkward stick. However, I was incredibly unpopular in high school. And it doesn't matter how attractive or unattractive you were at my school since we had access to plastic surgery - you didn't get anywhere if you didn't put out or weren't one of the cliquie "cool" kids.)

After all of this, during our senior year when I had finally come into my own and figured out what I wanted, and didn't want - when I was dating someone steadily (albeit String Bean, who will continue to be the butt of the majority of my posts and jokes ) - MM asks me to come to his graduation party. This is after he and a few of his friends had bad mouthed me throughout high school.

I promptly told him, "why would I want to go to a party of yours? Mine never happened, right?"

Hell yeah I brought it back from two years prior. That's what you DO in high school. I had figured out what a fair-weathered friend was, and who to trust and not to trust. Living up to who was "popular" and who wasn't, was not my thing.

Who denies getting some in high school? Seriously? Call it vindictive or call it vengeance - either way, Meathead had it coming!

These Boots Were Made For ... Something

2009-04-13T10:10:00.007-04:00

I love shoes. My closet has 4 racks of them overflowing and I still think I need more. Naturally, I do not expect the men I date to understand or share my love of footwear. I would probably be freaked out if I ever met a guy whose shoe collection rivaled my own. But, I do expect them to have the basics. This includes sneakers, flip-flops, loafers, and most importantly, some shoes to wear to work (one pair in black, one in brown).

I am not picky about what one's work shoes are. As long as they are dress shoes. And that is a very large range. While there are particular styles I do not care for (buckles on shoes remind me of pilgrims), I am willing to overlook personal tastes as long as the shoes are work appropriate.

Well, apparently Fred missed the memo of appropriate work footwear. He insisted on wearing the same inappropriate footwear every time he wore his slacks: a pair of ten-year-old Dr. Martin boots. I will give this a second to sink in.

They weren't like the 18 eye black boots that you're probably thinking. Nope, they were the dorky little brother of those. They looked like hiking boots, which was a little weird because Fred never really did anything that involved exerting even the slightest amount of energy.

He wore these stupid-ass boots to work with his slacks every day. Winter, summer, rain, snow, whatever, these boots were on his feet. I am honestly fascinated that no one ever told him his shoes were not appropriate.

Well, time went by, and I had forgotten about these boots. The rare times I did think of them, I assumed that he was young and stupid and had since picked up on social norms and ditched the boots for a pair of dress shoes to wear to the office.

Then I saw him. Still wearing the same fucking wrinkled slacks, button down short sleeved shirt and the boots. Those stupid boots. Jesus, if his current girlfriend has even an iota of good taste, she will take those things and burn them.

But, I don't think that's likely.

Hail to the Victors

2009-03-30T13:43:00.003-04:00

I am a sports fan. Unabashedly and undeniably so. Mostly I watch football, with smatterings of Hockey and Baseball in there sometimes. I even watch college football (Go Longhorns) even though my college team wasn't really the best. (We did have an AMAZING rookie this past season really rock it out tho! So proud!)

So I understand exuberant support of one's college team, and even having such strong feelings for a school that was never even attended. However, there is a fine line between devoted fan and obsessed fan.

Wolverine worked security at one of the Big Three back when I lived in Michigan. He was a huge fan and dreamed of going to the Big House to watch a game, even though he had yet to attend college.

We went out drinking one night to a dueling piano bar. The two show masters decided to rev up the school rivalries by playing the Michigan fight song as well as the Michigan State fight song. They solicited donations into two pots, one for Michigan, one for MSU, on their pianos. Partiers could put money into the pot - $1, $5, whatever they wanted to - and whichever pot had more money would continue to play the song. If the other pot all of a sudden surpassed the one currently playing, then the winning school's piano took over the noise and played the school's song. This went back and forth as the MSU fans fought with the Michigan fans to get their song played. The winner was determined by whichever pot reaching the end of the song before anyone from the other school had contributed enough to stop the song.

Anyway, this got Wolverine all sorts of riled up. As the drinks continued flowing, he refused to stop singing. He was too drunk to drive and it was freezing cold (Michigan winters...), so we took a cab back to his place.

This is where it got annoying.

Wolverine was holding his keys out when we arrived at his apartment. The stubborn ass of a man then decided that, despite the fact that I was freezing and he didn't have a jacket, we could not go inside until he and I had sang the entire Michigan fight song at the top of our lungs.

First, I tried reasoning with him. It's cold. I'm cold. Give me the keys. You're being an idiot. Someone's going to call the cops.

Second, I tried wrestling the keys from him. "RAPE! RAPE!" Sure, make the cops come faster. Give me the damn keys!

Third, I tried browbeating him. Just give me the keys. You're drunk. You're an outright idiot. Stop being a dickhead. You are SUCH an ass.

Fourth, I halfway gave in. How about you sing it to me, then we'll go in.

None of this had any effect. He had a plan. Sing the song at the top of our lungs or we're staying outside all night.

So I re-hailed a cab and went home. Drunken stupid sports fans make lousy boyfriends.

Lie to Me

2009-03-30T12:37:00.006-04:00

I've often wondered what the world looks like through Fred's eyes. Truly, he must live in some sort of unicorn fantasy land where anything is possible.

Either that, or he thinks the rest of us just fell off the back of the turnip truck.

Fred lied. Often. And poorly. And seldom about things of any consequence. He just really liked to lie. Of course many of the examples I would like to list here are either horribly humiliating, or fall more into the category of "why my ex has earned an especially hot corner in hell" than the category of "why my ex is a loser."

The first time Fred came to visit my parents, he was a two-pack-a-day smoker. No one in my family smokes. So, about every 45 minutes, he stand in my front yard and smoke himself silly. I'm not even going to touch how trashy this must have looked to the neighbors. Toward the end of his visit, my mom pulled me aside and said that while she was walking the dogs, she had encountered several cigarette butts in the yard and to please ask Fred to be more considerate. I could completely understand her annoyance with the situation and agreed to talk to Fred about it.

Later that night, I had the following conversation:

Me: "Hey, my parents have noticed a lot of cigarette butts in the yard. Moving forward, can you be more diligent about putting them in the trash?"

Fred: "They're not mine."

At this point, I was completely caught off guard. Whose did he think they were? None of my family smokes. None of my neighbors smoke. Did he honestly expect me to believe that some rogue smoker had taken-up leaving his trash in our yard several times a day without once being seen...and that this occurrence happened to coincide with Fred's visit? Not wanting to push the issue further, I just told him that I am happy he isn't leaving butts in my yard because my parents are angry with whoever is.

It absolutely blows my mind that he believed he could deny this and everyone would believe him. And that he would waste his efforts lying about something that truly was not a big deal. I should have realized that this was a sign he would only lie about bigger (see also, lesbian shower sluts) and more ambiguous things.

Wonder No More

2009-02-24T09:55:00.007-05:00

I once went on an awkward date during which I was asked if I had had any work done. At the time, I was shocked, confused and self-conscious. I felt terribly concerned that something on me was fake-looking. I never really figured out what that something was.

Well, today, I think I have figured it out. When logging on to Facebook, one of my announcements was that my date from two years ago had posted some new pictures. I was slightly curious, so I decided to check them out. And, oh my god! His date looks to be about ten years older than me and like she had implants done when she was 18. They are obvious (if you've ever seen fake tits, then you know that they often have a weird ridge on top), and they are sinking down her chest (as they do over time), so they are now about 6 inches lower than boobs naturally occur.

So, the mystery has been solved. My boobs are apparently in the fake size range. And my bad date was just hoping they were, in fact, fake.

Hard as Nails

2009-02-24T09:19:00.005-05:00

Most of my friends from middle school and high school stuck around the area for college. Not me. I went really far away. Consequently, I did not see my friends very often. The summer before my junior year, I spent at school, so by the time Christmas break rolled around, I had not seen my best friend from childhood for 8 months. We were both very eager for me to come home and had made plans to do several things. One of those things was to go to a New Year's Eve party together, as well as spend the day before the party together.

Fred showed up at my house the day after Christmas on very short notice and insisted that I come up to New York with him. I explained that I absolutely had to be back by Dec 30 because I had plans for early in the morning on the 31st. He acknowledged that I had made this request, so I assumed that he was OK with this arrangement and I went to see his parents. On the morning of Dec 30, he suddenly remembered that his family was going to have a dinner that night (they did this every night, so it really was no occasion) and he insisted that I stay. I reminded him of our original agreement and reminded him that I had made these plans with my friend several weeks ago, so it would be inappropriate to cancel on her now. Furthermore, I would see Fred at school, but I would not see my friend again until summer vacation.

He flipped out at me for "refusing to spend time with his family." Then he demanded to know what my plans even consisted of. Ok, so look, when I hang out with my friends, we aren't exactly saving children from burning buildings, or finding a cure for cancer. My plans in this particular case involved brunch, nail appointments and shopping. Yes, I will admit that none of these are really important on their own, but it was the fact that it was a day that both me and my friend had off and were willing to set aside for each other that made this important to me. I honestly don't care about brunch or nails or shopping very much, but I do care about spending time with my friends.

Fred seemed to miss the point in a lot of the things I did or said. Fred failed to see the whole bit about wanting to see my friend. And instead flipped the fuck out that I was "so superficial" and it was going to be so embarrassing for him to have to tell his family that I couldn't come over because I was "getting my nails done."

He really could have saved himself the embarrassment if he just told his family that I had made plans over three weeks ago, and this entire trip was sprung on me at the last minute and under the agreement that it would work around the plans I had already made, but Fred never did want to do things the unembarassing way.

Animal House

2009-02-23T13:58:00.008-05:00

Vengeful exes are the worst. You might think of us as vengeful, but we aren't. We story tellers. If we were vengeful story tellers, we'd use their real names.

Now you remember Diego. There was a girl who had a major crush on him after he and I broke up (when he still wanted to rekindle our relationship) who took to name-calling. She thought I had puffy cheeks (I think I was chubby in the picture she saw - I am less chubby now) and she decided to call me a "chipmunk."

Diego never really stood up for me, but no matter, we weren't dating by then anyway. While it irked me because of the childish nature of it all, it was really not a huge deal. It was really more that I wanted to make a point that her immaturity was detrimental to her ability to attract men.

Until he made it a big deal. Diego and I finally called even a friendship off for good. I simply couldn't stand him anymore, even as a friend. He wanted more from me than I was willing to give because I had started dating a guy who I fell very hard and very quickly for. I mean, we're moving in together in a few months. It was a serious relationship that I wanted to be giving my all to. Point being, we had tried being friends, and it just wasn't happening.

Diego invited my roommate (who he met when he came to visit me and try to get a job... you remember...) out to visit him. So yes, they became friends. My roommate posted a few pictures of me on her facebook page, which wasn't a problem. However, it promptly became a problem when he took one of those pictures and posted it on his page with the caption: "There was a recent report of rabid chipmunks out... they tend to have issues with bright lights beware... and yes I stole this from {Roommate}."

I found out when my current roommate emailed me from Russia asking about the picture, and when RGB and SJT pointed it out to me.

It bugged me. Probably more than it should. While I didn't want him in my life anymore, I certainly wanted it to end amicably. I had to hear from my friends that it was not some ignorant ho calling me a rabid chipmunk, but someone who I used to care very deeply about. And he did this from a forum that was not just enough people to count on one hand - which would be the equivalent of all the readers of my blog (yaaaaaay)- but on Facebook. Where every person who knows him and knows our history could see it. Yes, I DO consider that betrayal and vengeful.

Diego used a picture of me and a spiteful caption in a location that all of his friends could see, but I couldn't. A blog at least you have access to, and all discussants have aliases. I almost wish my friends would have just let it die, but they felt the need to ask me if something had happened that prompted you to call me a "rabid chipmunk." Calling me names for the sake of calling me names? Juvenile is putting what he did nicely!

But Diego felt bad. He pleaded with me to understand his "joke" and to not be upset and cut him out of my life. Ok, I would get that, except that there was no way for me to "get" the joke. I didn't have access to it. If he had sent it to me via email and said "you look like a rapid chipmunk who's afraid of bright lights..." well then I might have laughed with him. But with poor execution, it simply reminded me of what I need to do to keep myself happy. Get rid of Diego.

Cuz name-calling and facebook are childish. Let's be honest. All the grownups use blogger.

Spelling RG Bee

2009-02-17T09:17:00.004-05:00

My name, first and last, is ten letters. Ten. Even the most simple-minded person can remember a string of ten letters with five minutes of rehearsal. Unfortunately, Fred is unable to do this. Even with two and a half years of rehearsal.

The other day, I received a check in the mail from Fred. The first thing that caught my eye was the fact that my name was misspelled on the envelope. I figured it was just a fluke, but no. The check had the same misspelling.

We dated for two and a half fucking years and he never bothered to learn how to spell my fucking name. Not only did he not bother to learn it, he must have actively fought learning it. He had emailed me the day before sending the check and apparently did not notice the spelling of my last name in my email address. Seriously, what the fuck? You have to spell my name correctly to even email me! Furthermore, he has seen my name written out a million times and yet, somehow the ten letters did not string together in his head.

Although, this honestly shouldn't surprise me. This was the same guy who could not spell his own sister's first name. While trying to address a card to her, I asked Fred whether she spelled her name with an "e" or an "i" and Fred drew a blank (I ended up having him call his mother). I suppose that if after 18 years of his sister's life, he could not learn to spell her (very basic and very common) first name, then I really shouldn't have expected him to figure out my last name without at least 50 years' practice (I thank God every single day that he will not have the opportunity to practice my name for 50 years).

So, remember kids: pay attention in school. Misspellings are adorable when you're six, but when you're twenty-six, it's just fucking pathetic. Now I am stuck with a check that the bank most likely won't cash because someone is a fucking retard.

Nice going, douche.

What Not to Buy Your Girlfriend on Valentine's Day

2009-02-12T09:42:00.005-05:00

So, I'm probably beating a dead horse by making another bad gift post. But, it's Valentine's Day, and bad gifts never fail to be hilarious. So, suck it up and pretend you haven't heard this one yet.

What I have recieved in the past:

Fred: The first Valentine's Day we were together, he gave me nothing. The big fucking goose egg. We had dated for 6 months, so I kind of expected something, but was left empty handed. I recieved flowers from 4 other people and he still didn't take the hint. I canned his ass shortly thereafter. We got back together and the next Valentine's Day we were together, he mailed me a care package from Walmart. Now, I love Walmart as much as the next person (ok, probably much much more than the next person), but V-Day is not the time to get me Walmart knick-knacks. A box of batteries, cans of soup and beef jerky hardly constitutes a romantic gift. And a big stuffed dog is hardly appropriate for someone who is not a child.

Shrek: Gave me a box of chocolates. But then he ate them. Seriously, he presented me with a half-eaten box of chocolates as a gift. And the only ones left were the ones he didn't want. Why even bother?

Fruit Fly: Gave me a vase that was covered by a stuffed koala...it's hard to explain, but basically, it looked like a red plant was coming out of the koala's ass. Also, he gave me a chocolate bar that fell on the floor at work and he therefore obtained for free.

Boris: Ok, this is actually really really sweet, but a little misguided. He decided to be very romantic for Valentine's Day and got me two dozen roses, a huge box of Godiva truffles, a big heart-shaped balloon and a card. Except, he did this at school (I was 16 at the time), so I spent the entire day lugging around my Valentine's Day bonanza (my locker was way too small for the balloon and roses). Also, I was (and still am) really shy, so I didn't exactly love all the attention these things brought me. I loved the gifts, but I would have preferred recieving them at home.

At this point, I am over the idea of Valentine's Day. This year, I am just hoping for a good dinner and a lot of alcohol.

The F Word

2009-01-26T12:28:00.008-05:00

There are certain topics which are widely regarded as off limits for criticizing one's significant other. For example, I would never criticize a guy's height, penis size or baldness. Those are all things that are beyond their control and furthermore, if they were things that truly bothered me, I would simply not date the guy in question.

The list of off limits topics for women would probably include any facial features, breast size and weight. Of course, this didn't stop my exes from bringing up each of these topics. Perhaps the most alarming was the weight matter. I am not fat, so it would seem logical that no one would ever have anything negative to say about my weight. Apparently, this is not the case. Men seem to think that because I am not fat, they get a free pass on the weight issue, like it won't bother me. Well, assholes, it does.

When I was dating Fred, I was 5'8" and wore a size 0 (I have since ballooned up to a humongous size 2). Yet, he seemed to take pleasure in pointing out any area of me that had even an ounce of fat on it. One such area was my ass. I am not a big girl, but I have a lot of T & A. While this is not something I love about myself, it is something that I mostly accept and do not think about on a day-to-day basis. And seriously, if my ass still fit into a size 0, how much A did I really have?

I should also bring up that I grew 6 inches in high school and as a result, still had the faint remnants of stretch marks on my upper thighs in mid college (in case you really care, they are no longer visible). Well, one day Fred took it upon himself to point this out to me.

Fred: Your ass is too big

Me: It's a size 0.

Fred: But you have stretch marks. That means you're too fat.

Me: No, it means I grew six inches very quickly.

Fred: But it means you got too fat.

The conversation went on like this for a while before I finally gave up. Yes Fred, I am fat.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this is that he was, in fact, fat. 5'8" and 220 lbs is fat. Sorry, but it is. Yet, I would never have told him that. Also, I was much thinner than the girls he dated prior to me (and the ones he has dated since). If he ever called them fat, I hope they were more willing to roll with this kind of criticism than I was.

I often wonder what types of conversations he has had with these other women, given his penchant for playing fat police.

Fred: You're fat.

Fred's gf: You're fat, too.

Fred: Let's have fat sex.

Fred's gf: OMFG, I LOVE BUTTER!!!

Or something like that.

The Game

2009-01-12T15:09:00.006-05:00

BJA and I both have boyfriends, so it has been getting tougher to come up with new posts. While this doesn't really count as an ex story, we feel that these losers have earned themselves a special place on our blog.

Last Saturday, we went out with some other friends and were soon accosted by two... interesting-looking gentlemen. Oh, why am I trying to be nice about this? They looked like fricking rednecks. One was sporting a wolf shirt with a leather vest. The other was wearing a tight (I mean like so tight there was visible nippleage) and unflattering (he did not have the body to be wearing anything tight) bright yellow New Mexico shirt and motorcycle boots. Even with a motorcycle convention going on in Washington, they were still sorely out of place.

As they approach us, New Mexico announces "I usually don't talk to ethnic girls, but you guys are really hot."

Um, what? Ok, aside from the fact that is massively inappropriate to say to anyone, it also was a little confusing to me. I would not describe either myself or BJA as being ethnic. We're both of European ancestry, just like the rednecks. I am assuming that BJA was the "ethnic" one of us since she has dark hair and eyes, but either way, it's still a stretch. BJA thinks it may have been my dress, which had a pattern that may have been vaguely Indian-esque.

The conversation continued with them basically sounding ridiculous and BJA and I politely making fun of them in a way that went completely over their heads. I finally slipped in an insult that was low-brow enough for them to get. And they found it to be significantly more funny than it actually was. After they had themselves a little giggle fest, they revealed to us their plan.

They were trying to get rejected by as many girls as possible. They wanted to know if we had any advice for them. I politely gave them two of my worst pick up lines and suggested they used them. Then their entourage came over to talk to me and BJA. The rest of the entourage was about as interesting as Wolf Shirt and New Mexico. Clearly, they were not putting this plan to work. I told them to get on it (trying to get them to leave) and they turned around to the girls behind us (while still looking like they were in our group). I told them to try talking to people on the other side of the bar, as far away from us as possible; because they'll look more reject-able if there are no women with them. They took the hint. I think deep down, they were grateful that I gave them each one more rejection to add to their count.

I get it. They go out and try to pretend like they want to get rejected, that way when they do get rejected, it was part of the plan. And if they don't get immediately dismissed, they think their victims will find themselves special when they're let in on the plan. It's not clever. It's not cute. It's annoying.

Look, guys, seriously, don't play games like this. If you want to talk to a woman, just go for it. Don't make up stupid-ass back stories. Don't tell me you're from out-of-state if you're really just from over the bridge. Don't ask me if I saw the fight outside. Don't pretend to be taking a survey. Don't pretend to show me a magic trick. Just don't. Be honest about your intentions. Even if they are just to get in my pants.

Dinner Crimes

2008-12-29T01:13:00.005-05:00

Every girl has an insatiable desire to be pampered. One of the many surefire ways to impress a woman is took cook her dinner. The romance of a candlelit dinner and knowing your man slaved away on a stove or an oven for a while just to impress you is a surefire "win" for most guys.

But if you're going to go for it, you have to proceed carefully.

Most likely, if you burn the dinner or otherwise make it inedible, girls will forgive you. It's the effort that counts truly. We'll also likely never ask you to cook again if you royally screw it up badly enough, and we'll offer to cook from then on. We're ok with you attempting stuffed mushrooms or almond-crusted tuna steaks - whether you actually succeed or not. (Obviously infinitely more impressive if you pull it off, but I digress.)

A truly heinous offense, more-so than the failure to pull off a delicious almond-crusted tuna steak, and one for which you will not be forgiven, is making a huge fuss over a dinner that a.) you can't possibly screw up and b.) took hardly any effort over a monkey's capabilities.

We'll forgive you if you screw up something that took effort or was even remotely challenging. We'll sing your praises for trying to do something sweet, no matter the outcome. But if you come in saying you'll make us dinner, we expect a little effort... or if you're not going to really even try, humility.

Let me explain...

Berkley was a fast-talker. He was suave and smooth, but he definitely thought more of himself than I did in the end. One night, he announced, "Baby, I'm gonna make you dinner tomorrow night. How about some fish and pasta?"

Sounds wonderful, right? Fish is a challenging dish to prepare since its so easy to overcook, and pasta, while not exactly the most difficult entree to prepare, takes at least some degree of knowledge on how to cook. Score, a man willing to cook for me!

I was in for a disappointing surprise. I arrived just in time to see him in the midst of his meal preparation. The oven was on, and he was already cooking the pasta in the pot of boiling water... all seemed well.

Then I noticed the Kraft macaroni and cheese box... extra cheesy. I made this crap in middle school. Kids watched the blue box commercials when I was younger. This was not the pasta I was expecting.

But wait, it gets better.

I was sort of hoping against hope that the fish would be a little more high quality than mac and cheese from a box. Maybe he just didn't know any other way to make pasta, and I was more than willing to throw that in the "its the thought that counts" category.

He opened the oven to retrieve the fish... sticks. He made fishsticks. The kind you buy precooked and just set in the oven for 8 minutes or so.

I'm willing to let it slide if a man cannot cook. But bachelor food when you make a big fuss about cooking me dinner is absolutely unacceptable. This is the kind of "dinner" you make for kids you're babysitting because its the only thing they'll eat without crying for mommy. This is not something you play up for your girlfriend as a real San Francisco treat and then spend all of a middle-school amount of effort preparing.

Needless to say, I tried to pretend I was pleased. But Berkley's plan to impress truly fell flat. I would much rather he attempted a recipe with some degree of risk and fail miserably rather than pick something that pleases the under-age-10 crowd.

Fishsticks and Kraft macaroni and cheese = Dinner FAIL.

Cracker, Please

2008-11-02T08:14:00.005-05:00

I don't eat many snacks. Usually, a box of cookies lasts about six weeks in my apartment (they usually get thrown out from being stale before they get eaten).

I was grocery shopping with Fred one day and decided that I wanted to get some crackers to keep at his place. I was over often and he did not have the most appealing food options (see also: six month old petrified chicken kabob).

Anyway, two days after I had purchased the crackers, I got a rare snack craving while at Fred's apartment and started searching his kitchen for my crackers. They were no where to be found. So, I asked Fred about them and he told me that he had no idea what happened to them and that one of his roommates probably took them.

I was a little pissed that his roommates would knowingly eat someone else's food, but I never said anything. Two weeks later, I brought TWO new boxes of crackers over to Fred's apartment. This time, I opted to keep them on a shelf in Fred's room instead of in the kitchen where they could be stolen by roommates. That night, I fell asleep after some studying. Apparently Fred stayed up a little later.

The next morning, I looked at the shelf and saw that both boxes of crackers were gone. I was furious. I opened a drawer in Fred's desk, and there were three empty boxes of crackers. The previous night, he had eaten both boxes of crackers. Two weeks prior, he had eaten my crackers, then blamed it on someone else, rather than choosing to fess up and buy me new crackers.

But honesty issues aside, who the hell eats two entire boxes of crackers in one night? I looked up the nutrition facts on these crackers and it works out to 2520 calories. In one night. And this was in addition to eating a full breakfast, lunch, dinner and other assorted snacks.

But, the worst part was that he didn't even throw away his trash. He kept it safely in his desk for those two weeks. And probably would have kept it all year if I hadn't found it. Disgusting!

Too Sexy For Clothes

2008-09-23T20:12:00.008-04:00

Every girl has a fantasy she wants to live out with a guy. For some it's places, others it's outfits, and still others it's personas. I'm totally one of those I-want-a-guy-who-does-X girls. And what did I want? A stripper. Oh yeah. I never expected to have a chance to explore said fantasy, but, when I did, I realized the extent to which I hadn't thought this whole fantasy thing through.

Dallas was a nice guy. And yes, I am using his stripper name. (Don't track him down, I doubt you'll find anything based off of that... or at least you won't be able to narrow it down...) He was really a blast to be around and to this day I think he's a riot.

Yet, Dallas wasn't really what we'd call "classy," and certainly not high privileged. Not that he was broke, but that he had a propensity to spend his umm... hard-earned money... very quickly. Wisely though, was a complete other matter.

Dallas liked coupons. And I would have supported certain kinds - food... restaurants... etc. But Dallas liked the "5 for $5" coupons offered by the local thrift store down his street. That's right. He liked to buy used consignment clothes for $1 each. Shirts, jeans, jorts, button downs, ties, shoes, and, not even kidding, suits. He bought a blue zuit suit for $2.

Here's my thing. Thriftiness is a desireable quality. Living beyond one's means is unacceptable, frankly, and reflects poorly on your future abilities to buy me shiny things. So, while I respected Dallas' intentions of saving money, I was distraught that it was at the expense of decent clothing.

Sigh. I guess he was too sexy for his clothes anyway...

Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar...Ribs?

2008-09-22T12:45:00.006-04:00

Meeting your significant other's parents for the first time totally sucks. Meeting them subsequent times also totally sucks. There is a great deal of pressure to seem responsible, but not controlling. To be polite, but not stuffy. To be fun, but not obnoxious. As if that's not enough, the odds are stacked against you from the beginning because every parent is convinced that no person in the world is worthy of dating their little snowflake.

For guys, there's the added pressure of what to do when the check comes. If you offer to pay, does it look like you're implying that the parents can't afford to? Does it send the message that you are trying to buy their daughter off of them? If you don't offer to pay, do you look cheap? While I would usually advise offering, I would say that depending on the situation, either could be the right answer to the check conundrum.

Then there is that hidden third route which is never the right answer. That is the one which Fred chose to take.

Fred came to visit me at my parents' house. Since he only packed jorts, this limited our dining options, but my parents still wanted to take us out to dinner. So, we went to a casual restaurant which served mainly burgers and such. My parents ordered wraps (they're health-conscious) and I ordered a burger (I am not so health-conscious). Fred decided that he just couldn't resist ordering ribs.

This was a little annoying to me since it is such a fussy and messy meal and no one else was eating it. I was a little shocked that he wanted to eat something that was so sloppy in front of my parents. But, I didn't say anything. I didn't even give him a dirty look when he proceeded to get barbecue sauce and bits of meat all over his face and his ugly ass Hawaiian shirt.

When the check came, Fred decided that he should offer to pay. But rather than offer to split the bill with my parents, he presented them with a barbecue sauce soaked five dollar bill. Why? Because he figured his meal was about five dollars more than everyone else's. I wish I were joking about this.

I can understand that he would not offer to pay for everyone's meal. He was 22 and at 22, taking four people out to dinner, even to a burger joint, is a big investment.

However, given that he had chosen to offer to pay part of the check, I feel like the minimum offer he should have made would have been for his full meal. The preferred would have been to just split the damn check -- maybe offering to throw in a few extra bucks if he were truly concerned about his meal costing more.

But just paying the difference between his meal and the table average? How did this seem like a good idea? I tried to whisper discreetly to him to just not offer at all. This would have been a lot less awkward than offering up five dollars.

My parents were confused and annoyed by the offer and politely refused. But they never let me forget it, despite my attempts to block that night out of my memory.

He's a Caaaaaniac, CAAAAAANIAC!

2008-09-17T10:26:00.008-04:00

It's a little weird how much of my relationship with Fred revolved around chicken.

The night after I had discussed the chicken wings incident with Fred, we went to Raising Canes. Since Fred had already eaten one dinner and I am hardly the type of girl who can pack a continuous stream of chicken wings for three hours (sorry, I love my size 2 ass too much), we decieded to split a Caniac (which I paid for).

For those of you out of the loop, this includes 6 chicken fingers, some fries and two pieces of toast (this is important).

Well, since Fred was too busying blowing on a conch shell (insert phallic reference here), I went ahead and seperated the chicken fingers, removing three for myself. Well, this did not go over well. He threw a hissy fit (seriously, a fucking hissy fit) that I was trying to eat his food.

Um, wow. Didn't know he was so protective over it (just kidding, his fat ass and matching beer gut was a dead giveaway that he never let one morsel of food escape his claws).

Also, as a math major, he really should have realized that removing three chicken fingers from a six chicken finger meal is, in fact, taking half of it. But apparently he was blinded by the idea of being potentially denied a chicken finger.

In his fit, he claimed that I was trying to take his food from him. Apparently he believed this to be an ongoing problem. This was weird to me because we were about the same height, but I was half his weight. He was clearly not missing out on any food.

Anyway, I finally got my act together and and dumped him after this...I just wish I hadn't taken him back a few weeks later. D'oh!

Gotta Go Right Now

2008-09-08T10:57:00.013-04:00

As a child, I didn't have the best coordination. I never could hold my pencil correctly and I tied my shoes the weird way (two loops instead of one). Not to mention, both my knees are covered in scars from the zillions of nasty spills I took. I'd like to say that this is one of those things that improved with age, but that would be well not true.

I'm as clumsy now as ever and on any given day, I 'm certain to have at least one knee bruised from tripping on the curb (Seriously, its like watching an episode of when curbs attack). I am completely clumsy, uncoordinated and awkward. This is an unchangeable part of who I am and I accept it but it has resulted in some interesting situations.

For example, I was home from college for spring break one year, while Shrek remained at school. I took this opportunity to spend time with my family and my high school friends.

One night, we were playing drinking board games -- girls vs. boys with the girls' team totally dominating at Simpsons Battle of the Sexes but after several beers, I needed a bathroom break.

I was really in a hurry and somehow in the process of trying to get my belt undone, I managed to jam it really badly. It had one of those slidey buckle things like an old boy scout belt and I managed to slip part of it out of where it was supposed to be and I could not get the thing undone. After unsuccessful attempts, I realized I needed assistance.

I snuck back out and pulled my friend to the side to see if she could get it unjammed. After a few minutes of pulling, she was unable to get it to budge. I discreetly pulled another girl to the side who was also unable to get it undone.

At this point I was in pain I gave up and asked a guy. This was incredibly embarrassing and awkward at the time, but he was able to get my belt off.

The next day, Shrek called and I mentioned what I had been up to over the past couple of days including the belt story which after the fact just seemed really funny to me.

Shrek did not see the humor in the situation. In fact, he spent the next 15 minutes screaming into the phone about what a slut I was.

At least that's what I think he screamed about the whole time. I put the phone down after five minutes to go get a drink of water and when I came back, he was still carrying on. I explained that it wasn't like I asked him to take my pants off -- I just needed someone to assist with my belt so I would not have to piss myself. But this point was lost on him.

Apparently not peeing my pants makes me a slut. But, according to him, my Vineyard Vines tote bag, Rainbow flip-flops and hairbands also made me a slut. I don't think that word means what he thinks it means.

Through the Looking Glass

2008-08-26T16:53:00.007-04:00

When I was ten, my best friend and I stole some coins out of a dried-up fountain to buy a couple of sodas. That was the beginning and end of my life of crime. Shortly thereafter, I came to recognize and appreciate the norms and rules of society as well as property rights. I suppose this never sinks in for some people.

People like Fred, whose long and storied life of crime began well before, and continued long after, I met him.

This brings me to the story of his 22nd birthday, which he decided to ring in with an Alice in Wonderland themed party. This included him dressing up as the Mad Hatter. Not so shockingly, he promoted it as a party in which all sorts of illegal drugs would be available. Apparently this was the type of life he desired prior to his security clearance.

As much as I love the NOPD, I had no desire to celebrate my loser ex’s 22nd birthday in jail, so I opted not to attend his druggy party. But, whether I wanted to or not I still got to listen to all Fred's planning details. One afternoon, when I arrived at his apartment I was shocked to see a pink and yellow plastic play house.

"We're going to put a keg inside!" exclaimed Fred. I told him that was a cute idea then asked where on earth he even bought a playhouse.

"Well, we didn't buy it."

"Did you dumpster dive or something?"

"No, we took it from a playground...in front of a church."

Yeah that's right -- there really was nothing else to say.

Between the drugs and stealing from church, the majority of Fred's normal friends decided not to attend and, the party guests ended up being the weird druggy friend-of-a-friend type of crowd. I only knew one person other than Fred and his roommate who ended up going to the party. She felt uncomfortable and didn't stay long. Apparently Fred sat alone on the couch eating pan after pan of pot brownies while moping that no one cool had come the entire time.

Maybe this was him being smited for stealing from a church.

I'd like to say that he grew from this experience, but that's not exactly what happened. In fact, when he found a Wal-Mart ad in the paper for the playhouse a couple of months later, he proudly announced to anyone who'd listened that he wasn't a "sucker" like anyone who paid $29.99 for the playhouse. Classy, classy guy.

Snow Patrol

2008-08-19T15:30:00.005-04:00

A few years ago there was this insanely crazy blizzard in my hometown. Worse, it happened over the first spring break in my life that my parents hadn't planned a getaway vacation. I was looking forward to hanging out with my friends, enjoying some time outside, and spending some quality time with String Bean without worrying about getting to school or practice on time.

Well, the snow ruined all that. It began snowing on Monday. Four feet later, I was snowed in and playing Life with my younger brother and parents by candlelight. You don't know real pain until you have one of those little cars stuffed with pink and blue "people" and your father says, "I hope this isn't what I really can expect from your life."

I couldn't wait to escape. On Wednesday, we finally figured out how to get out of our house and to my friend Becky-lou's. (Obviously a made-up name, get over it.) We spent the day watching movies, acknowledging the fact that all other options were buried under four feet of snow.

Meanwhile, String Bean had escaped from his house and headed to a friend's home, who apparently was having some sort of blizzard related drinking party. That night, they proceeded to get wasted. String Bean calls me, drunk, and screaming. Turns out a fellow partyier thought it would be hilarious to draw a... specific body part.. on String Bean's face when he passed out. Needless to really say, String Bean was peeved.

Instead of being an adult, String Bean abandoned ship. He careened (without a coat) into the snow towards his own home. Remember - he's drunk, he has a phalic symbol on his face, and he's increasingly growing closer to frostbite and/or freezing to death. Logically, he calls me.

My young and naive head could not wrap around the idiocy String Bean was engaging in. But, "savior" I felt I was, I begged Becky-lou and her father to let us drive his SUV through the snow and out of the neighborhood into the main town where StringBean was apparently wandering. Mind you, it was now icy, and the plows hadn't come through, so it was only what had melted down or been shoveled by hand that we could travel over.

The 10 minute trip took much longer than it should have because of the snow and the inability of the SUV to operate as a snowplow. We spun a few times, but fortunately got out in one piece and without having slid into a pole or curb. But the situation wasn't getting any better. StringBean wouldn't answer his phone. He was lost in the snow drifts.

After driving almost aimlessly through the deserted snowy streets of my home town, I spotted a lone figure stumbling through the piled-up snow. Sure enough, it was String Bean, who proceeded to beligerently tell me off for "following him". Like I really wanted to be trudging through ice and snow to save his ass.

We left after about 20 minutes of unyielding insults and anger, when I finally realized what a douche I was dating. If he refused to get in the car and was going to be a drunken ass, there was no use fighting with him.

Come to find out the next day that String Bean had been approached by another vehicle shortly thereafter. This one had flashing red and blue lights and a couple of cold and bitter men with flashlights who were justifiably a little peeved at this drunken idiot wandering around without a coat with a p*nis on his face. Fortunately, the officers decided to give String Bean a ride home, but not before giving him a breathalizer and a ticket for being drunk in public.

The next day, when we all could finally get cleanly out of the neighborhoods and the snow plows had done their part to clear the roads, I talked to String Bean about his frozen escapade. He defended his actions by claiming he was, ahem, NOT drunk. Didn't seem to register that he had a ticket indicating otherwise. And to top it all off, somehow it was my fault that he had been out in the cold.

Yes, String Bean. And I drew the p*nis on your face, too. I got crazy skills.

Call On Me (Call Me)

2008-08-18T10:30:00.015-04:00

There's a certain decorum that supposedly comes from a relationship that pertains to what is appropriate and what is not. There are certain rules that must be followed, and both RGB and myself have seemed to find men who were completely unaware, ignorant, or simply too dirty-minded to understand basic decency.

1. Text messages and/or emails describing your physical and/or emotional state that are sent during normal working hours are inappropriate. Not to mention, we have it in writing if we decide you are too stalkerish to continue contacting us unabated.

2. Gchat is definitely the wrong forum to begin a discussion on the hardness of your.... day. I cannot stress this enough. You DO realize the potential for coworkers or superiors to see your little conversation with yourself, don't you? And you also, I'm sure, are aware that google stores these chats?

3. Voicemails are equally distasteful. Fortunately, my voicemail cuts off after a few minutes and you better be done with your message. If the time before it takes the tone to sound is all you need to do what you need to do, there's a reason we didn't pick up anyway. These are, of course, general tips on how to NOT approach phone/text/email/chat sex with a girl.

RGB:

As I was walking to work one morning, my phone started going off. "Crap," I thought, "my boss must have broken the copy machine again."

But, as I dug my phone out of my purse, I saw that it was actually the Dud. I was a little confused as to why he was calling, but I answered.

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh, I'm wearing a black suit. Why? Do you see me? Are you here too?" I started looking around trying to find a doofy blond guy on a cell phone.

"What are you wearing under that?"

"Oh, dear lord. Dud, you realize that I am walking down K street right now? This conversation is not appropriate."

He then proceeded to whine. I'm not sure what he expected. It was 8:15am on a Tuesday. I was going to work. Apparently he did not understand that I did not want to have this conversation. His penchant for phone sex was really quite disturbing to me. But, even if I had been up for it, surely he could have chosen a better time to make these calls.

Apparently this concept was lost on him because the following several weekdays, I received similar calls. The time always varied with when he woke up. Sometimes the calls came on my way to work, sometimes while I was sitting at my desk, sometimes while I was out at lunch.

Of course, hanging up the phone was not enough to get him to calm down. He would then proceed to send lewd text messages describing the state of his genitals and his general level of excitement. He would send me about ten of these, all of which I would not respond to. He would then call in an attempt for there to be some sort of grand finale.

However, soon it became apparent that my response to this was not important. He seemd to get his jollies off sending me gross texts whether I responded to them or not. I must have had thousands of unanswered texts about his junk.

Obviously, I had nothing to say back to these messages, so I would ignore them, along with the phone calls. He did give up on the phone call segment of this routine, but he still kept sending texts months after we quit talking. I suppose the thought of me sitting at my desk, showing my coworkers the messages from my perverted stalker really did it for him.

BJA:

As a more broad hint, I would broach the subject with your girl before you attempt any of the above. Assuming she'll be into it or receptive is presumptuous, but there are some girls out there who might get just as many jollies from such antics. Just... not me or RGB.

Diego tried to... invite me to participate... multiple times, and, to his credit, not necessarily all the most innapropriate venues, but certainly after making it clear I was not into it, the subject should have been dropped. And no, switching forums from phone to online doesn't work either.

Yet, the most heinous of these offenses was a guy a did not date at all. I did not go on one date with Announcer Boy. Two of my friends did, however, at different times. The lesson that should be taken from this experience is that texting the same message to multiple people is for making movie or bar plans for a group of people - not phone sex.

One night, I was having a girls night with friends, of which Friend 1 and Friend 2 had dated Announcer Boy. Friend 3 also knew AB, yet Friend 4 had yet to make his acquaintence, which explains her being saved this experience.

My phone started ringing it's text message tone, followed immediately by Friend 1, Friend 2, and Friend 3's phones. Four phones all going off at the same time.

"What color "undergarments" are you wearing?" (undergarments replacing a word a bit more graphic.)

All four of us. Same message. From AB. So, brilliant ladies that we were, we all responded with a very graphic and specific description of our fictional undergarments. The catch - we used the exact same description. Something to the tune of polkadots and bows, a specific cut of undergarment, and a wonderful combination of greens, pinks, and blues.

Moments later, my phone rings. Only mine, none of the other girls. Rather quietly, perhaps even timidly is the best characterization of this approach, AB asked, "Are you with Friend 1, Friend 2 and Friend 3?"

"Why yes, AB. And we're having one big matching panty orgy without you."

Needless to say, his phone sex extravaganza did not work out the way he had hoped.

Since we all called him out on his antics, hopefully he has learned to stick with one-on-one text sex. But who am I kidding? He's on loserex, so obviously he just found a new crop of unsuspecting women to canoodle over time and space.

The bottom line is this: if you're the type of man who...enjoys certain types of phone conversations, try to do so with class (well, as much as you can really show in this situation). That means, call at an appropriate time, only call the person whom you are dating, only call someone who is receptive to this form of contact. If you can't follow these rules, then it might be time to suck it up and call a 900 number. Sure it's pricey, but I assure you, the $4.99 a minute is a bargain price to pay to maintain your dignity.

The Crying Game

2008-08-13T08:45:00.001-04:00

After about 5 months of dating, Shrek's eyebrows were starting to grow together into one unibrow. It was gross.

Well, maybe not as gross as the fact that he cleaned his ears with a car key. And probably not as gross as all those times he spit phlegm into half empty soda bottles which he forgot to throw away for weeks, leaving a nasty culture of whatever lurks in his throat. And definitely not as gross as that really gross thing he once did that I told BJA about earlier. But, it was still pretty nasty.

I waited for about 2 months before I finally said something about the unibrow. By this time it was Bert from Sesame Street bad. I suggested he get it waxed into two distinct eyebrows, the kind most non-neanderthals have. My suggestion did not exactly go over well. There was no way he was going to get his eyebrows waxed. That was for chicks. He didn't want to look like a chick with thin, arched eyebrows. I explained that they would not give him girl eyebrows, but he still refused to go.

His male boss told him the next day that I was right about his unibrow (God bless this man), so he came back to me and asked me to get him an appointment to have it waxed. Luckily, I had an appointment later that week, so I called up and they were willing to squeeze him in right after me.

When we arrived to the appointment, he was nervous, so I asked if he could come back with me and watch me get mine done first, thinking he would see that it wasn't too bad. Sure enough, watching me get my eyebrows done put his nerves at ease for when he got his done.

Until the first rip. He started crying. Crying! I don't mean the few reflexive tears that an eyebrow waxing sometimes produces either. I mean all out crying about how much it hurt.

God, I remember this scene so vividly. The relaxing mood music playing softly in the background. Several small, white candles warmly glowing in an otherwise dimly lit room. The smell of lavender and sage hanging in the air. A 6'5", 230lb man crying hysterically about how much pain he was in. A confused and slightly frightened esthetician exchanging awkward looks with me.

He managed to get through the entire process (which was really only like 2 minutes) without running out, but he spent the next three weeks telling everyone how I made him get his eyebrows done. And it was the most painful thing, ever. And that I had no idea how much it hurt. Um, hello? I got mine done right in front of him beforehand.

He resolved to shave his unibrow, thus leaving two uneven eyebrows and some thick stubble between them.

His asinine belief that his rip shod shaving job was on par with the professionals was beyond incorrect, beyond loser. It was pathetic. And his eyebrows, effectively reduced to caterpillars chasing each other through some sparsely populated forests, looked foolish.

But nevermind that, at least I didn't have to see him cry again.

I Don't Have to Live This Way...

2008-08-11T15:37:00.005-04:00

So, I'm at the end of yet another failed relationship. Probably the most spectacularly failed relationship of my life. I mean, how many breakups actually require you to move to another state with twenty minutes of notice?

So, I am back at my parents' house in small town Louisiana after making a sudden, mad dash from Little Rock, Arkansas where I had been living with my (now ex-) boyfriend. I am fully aware of the white-trashiness of that last sentence. I know that ninety percent of those reading this are envisioning me with a bleach blond perm and bandanna print tube top, living in a circa- 1980 single wide trailer. But that's really not how it was. Little Rock is actually a really nice city. It has an enormous amount of beautiful early twentieth century arts and crafts architecture and nice, intelligent people.

I'm sitting in my childhood bedroom that has since been converted to the office, drinking Franzia at one o'clock in the afternoon and lamenting the loss of my year and a half relationship. But its a weird feeling of sadness, mixed with excitement for the next part of my life. I feel free--if I had stayed with him I'd never have left Little Rock (as nice a city as it is, there simply is no opportunity for me there). But despite this, I am sad. He and I have had some amazingly fun times and there for a while, I honestly thought I could settle for life in Arkansas and be happy. It wasn't exactly what I wanted from life. But I thought, well life's never what you expect it to be...so maybe this is it. But the longer I was there and the more our relationship deteriorated, I more I realized that I was settling for something that would never make me happy. I realized that if I stayed, ten years from now, I would only resent him because I never had the chance to do what I wanted to with my life.

So here I am, back at home, trying to decide what to do next. Its an odd feeling to have all of your plans destroyed in less than a half an hour. But I'll make it through. And I'm sure as this relationship fades into my past, I'll have some funny stories to tell. (Like the airbrushed tiger t-shirt I got for Christmas.) Just give me some time. It's still too soon to be able to think about it too much.

Sticking it to the man

2008-08-05T10:30:00.001-04:00

Freshman year of college, I dated a guy whose name rhymed with "Stan". He was a complete nutcase, but this is not about him, I only bring him up because he totalled both my car and my mother's car within a week and my sister coined him "[rhymes with Stan] [rhymes with Stan] the bad driving man".

Several years later, I started dating a guy who also had a first name that rhymed with Stan. He was attractive, ambitious, intelligent, highly-principled and had a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor that I loved--he was perfect for the first several months until I discovered his quirk: his life goal was to stick it to the man. Seriously, I have never met a person who liked to stick it to the man more than he did. And his preferred method of sticking it to the man was to simply stop patronizing "then man's" business. The list of places he wouldn't patronize was longer than the list of places he would. And he seriously thought that he could cause financial ruin to those businesses that crossed him.

At first it was sort of attractive that he was that highly principled because I am too (ask me why I only stay at Marriott-family hotels). Then it was somewhat obnoxious (mostly when he wouldn't take me to Target on a Saturday). As time passed, it ceased to be obnoxious and started to be a neverending source of entertainment, as in "how did you stick it to the man today babe?".

One time, we went back to the midwest for my girlfriend's wedding. She was from the same small town as my boyfriend so we made a long weekend out of it and spend some extra time with his family. He was supposed to fly back on a Monday afternoon and get home around 7PM but the boyfriend decided on Sunday afternoon that he wanted to get home earlier in the day so he called AirTran and asked if he could get on the 7AM flight. They only had business class seats available on that flight so it would have cost him about $400 to change flights.

Can I just transfer my coach ticket use my frequent flier points to upgrade to business class? No because you need a confirmed seat on the same flight to do that.

Can I use my frequent flier points to upgrade on my confirmed flight and transfer that ticket? No it doesn't work that way.

I should probably mention that we had a bunch of frequent flier points because a) we did a dual-city relationship for a while but mostly b) we had a AirTran credit card that we put a great deal of our credit card expenses on so we could get the points. Boyfriend saw these points as a negotiation tactic.

Well, you do realize that I will be cancelling my A+ rewards Visa card?

I've got to hand it to the customer service lady because in this situation she was about 10 times wittier than I could have been:

Well sir, the airline doesn't really lose anything if you don't use your frequent flier miles. That's a benefit reaped by the customer. So really, you are only punishing yourself. And the credit card is owned by a bank, AirTran doesn't get money from the card, it gets customer loyalty which is more important to its business model anyways. So I don't really care if you cancel your card.

The boyfriend was pretty deaf from spending too much time on the firing line which benefitted me in a great many ways: 1) I could make snarky comments under my breath and he never heard them, 2) I could discuss his Christmas present on the phone with my mom when he was across the room and he was still surprised on Christmas morning, and 3) he kept his phone turned up so loud I can hear it across the room. Therefore, I heard this exchange as clear as day and I started laughing my ass off. I may have actually shot beer out of my nose, I laughed so hard. Shocked that he got put in his place by a customer service rep, he quickly and politely ended the call. I immediately called sister and told her the whole story and he was quickly dubbed "[rhymes with Stan] [rhymes with Stan], stick it to the man".

Hey Hey What's That Sound?

2008-07-25T14:22:00.006-04:00

Fratty was a frat boy. A stalker frat boy.

Let me explain.

Fratty and I had dated casually for a few weeks. At some point, I realized he wasn't really all that bright, and I had better things to do than continue messing around with him. Let me be clear, we had never slept together - at all. We hadn't been dating that long. Nevertheless, Fratty apparently didn't get the memo that he was never going to sleep with me.

We still hung out in the same circles, and occasionally ran into one another. We both happened to go to the same party one night, at the home of a mutual friend of ours who I had gone to high school with. Realizing I had drank a wee bit too much, I asked my friend if I could stay at his house. He was happy to oblige, and even offered me the guest room. Little did I know that Fratty had overheard the exchange.

Later in the evening, Fratty, "too drunk to go home," asked my friend if he, too, could stay the night. My friend, the ever accommodating guy that he was, agreed, telling him he could stay on the fouton in his room.

After I had fallen asleep, I was awakened by the door opening and shutting in the guest room I was sleeping in. It was Fratty.

"Umm, what are you doing?"

"I'm tired. His fouton is uncomfortable" And he laid down next to me.

"Uh, no. You can't stay in here. Please leave."

After repeated attempts to cuddle (you would think a couple of pointed arm removals, hand slaps, and the escalating face slaps would be some sort of deterent), I finally stood up and walked out of the room. Fratty finally left the guest bedroom a few minutes after it clicked I wasn't going to come back in for some more cuddling.

Not even a half an hour into finally falling asleep, I was awakened by snoring. There was no one in the bed, so I glanced on the floor. Curiously, there was nothing either, but snoring was still distinctly audible.

On a hunch, I looked under the bed. Fratty had squeezed, apparently quite quietly, under the bed while I slept. I shook him to wake his stalker ass up, but he was either in a deep sleep or convinced that if he faked it long enough I would leave him be.

I wasn't going to put up with it, so I went to my friend's room and took shelter on his fouton - which was surprisingly quite comfortable, contrary to Fratty's claims.

In the morning, my friend accussed Fratty of playing musical beds, and not-so-kindly told him off on my behalf. Now that's what good friends are for. Scaring off creepy loserexes.

Freakin STALKER.

I'm a Loser Baby (Part 2)

2008-07-25T09:37:00.001-04:00

Stringbean and I had been on our last leg when the flying squirrel incident happened, but I finally found the strength and/or balls to dump him for good a few months later. (Remember - we were long distance, so it took longer than it EVER would have had I been continually submitted in person to the loserness that was Stringbean.)

Once again, Stringbean neglected to call me the night before. At this point, however, I had grown accustomed to his flakiness and didn't think much of it. I was in class, trying to focus on what my professor was telling me about the phonetic alphabet and the french language, when my phone buzzed. The number came up as "Unknown," and I let it roll to voicemail. I imagined it was Stringbean, and thought it was appropriate to make the jerk wait. He knew I was in class, and, quite frankly, I didn't care what he had to say at the moment.

When class ended, I checked my voicemail.

"Hey baby girl it's me... (automated voice jumps in) is trying to call you from Jefferson County Detention Center. This call is collect and cannot be returned."

Needless to say I was not amused. My boyfriend was in friggin JAIL.

I called his Dad to find out what happened. He was a little sketchy on the details, but Stringbean had been arrested the night before for assault, and his Dad made the executive decision to leave his ass in the slammer for a day or two. I fully supported his decision.

Meanwhile, I called his buddy Bovi to find out the "real" story. Stringbean and some chick had been arguing inside the house. Bovi had young kids who were sleeping and decided that the two of them could take their dispute outside and leave the kids in their peaceful slumber.

Yet, once outside, it seems the argument esclated. Suffice it to say that the neighbors called the cops when they saw a young man and a young woman turning to blows to solve their argument. When the police arrived, they found Stringbean on top of said young woman, appearing, apparently, to be strangling her.

When Stringbean finally called at a time I could answer, I had very little to say. No amount of crying, "you're supposed to support me," "I called you because I thought you'd be the only person who would be on my side," or any other various blubbering statements could sway me.

Stringbean and I were finally over. It saddens me to this day that it took a jailhouse phone call for me to walk away from this loserex.

The Story of Us

2008-07-17T16:12:00.017-04:00

I started my first blog my junior year of college. Putting your innermost thoughts on the internet and putting the link in your AIM profile is probably not the smartest thing to do, but all of my smart/witty/deep friends were doing it and we all do really dumb things in college. At least I didn't get herpes or something.

The next summer I dated MB. MB wasn't as smart/witty/deep as me and my friends, but he wanted to pretend so he started his own blog. Unfortunately, having already graduated from college (and I am using the term "college" very loosely) and being marginally employed, the content for his blog was pretty mundane. He attempted to make up for it by posting song lyrics (usually Italian opera lyrics that no one understood) and some of his original poetry (he was self-published). Shortly after we broke up, he took a stab at writing fiction. Really grotesque fiction (think scripts for snuff films). About me. Using my real name.

I am not going to go into details, but let's just say with a good bit of alcohol in my system, I could probably be persuaded into a few kind-of-kinky things. Necrophilia is not one of those things. Especially if I am the dead one.

Ordinarily, this would be terrifying and I would look into restraining orders, but, as I may have mentioned before, MB was questionably literate. So much so that you had to read each sentence three or four times before you understood what he was trying to convey. So instead of taking out a restraining order, I printed out a dozen copies of one of his creepier stories and left them on the editing table of the newspaper office on a Sunday afternoon.

My fellow editors are to this day some of my best friends because just like me, they are a) anal about editing things and b) willing to do just about anything to avoid doing actual work.

My friends didn't let me down and immediately began editing MB's prose and researching the submission requirements for the literary magazine (as in we called the editor of the literary magazine, told her we were writing a story about it and asked a bunch of "interview" questions--then, so no one would suspect anything, we stuck a random "call for submission" text box on the A&E page). We put MB's real name on his story and stuck it in the magazine's on-campus mailbox in the middle of the night.

I wish I could say it got published, but it didn't. Surprisingly, the literary magazine actually gets enough submissions that they are able to reject some. I never heard about it again, unless you count every editorial meeting for the rest of the semester.

I guess it's all for the best, as it probably would have resulted in both of us getting in real trouble if it had been published. And while I am all for making my exes pay for their transgressions, I don't think any of them have done anything bad enough to deserve jail time.

Alcohol, Part 3

2008-07-03T09:14:00.004-04:00

After the riverboat episode, Fred was in quite a bit of trouble (well, as much trouble as one ever really gets in during college). Since he had already completed the mandatory on-campus alcohol class and counseling following his experiment in pantslessness, they had to give him something a bit more substantial -- the requirement to attend an off-campus alcohol evaluation. This meant that Fred would have to pony up a few bucks to pay for a psychological evaluation. And paying for anything was not Fred's style. Seriously, he wiped his ass with newspapers he found around campus to save money on toilet paper.

Not wanting to give up his life long streak of being unreasonably cheap, he considered his alternatives. His conclusion: find a professor licensed to practice psychology and get him to sign off on the forms. Of course, Fred didn't actually know any professors who fit the bill, so he "asked" that I have my advisor sign off on his papers.

I was appalled that he saw no problem with making me ask my advisor to do something illegal, and unethical for my alcoholic boyfriend (seriously no judgment -- he had a problem). He didn't even want to go talk to the guy, he just wanted to give me the papers and have them get signed.

Obviously, this was a no go. There was no way I was going to ask a professor to put his job on the line because my boyfriend is a cheapskate alcoholic. Fred eventually came up with the money to get the evaluation -- and held it against me for the rest of the time we dated.

On the Boardwalk in Atlantic City...

2008-06-30T09:10:00.003-04:00

During college, I went on a few trips with Fred, all of which I paid for – hotel, drinks, the works. Invariably he never seemed to have the money to cover his part -- including things like gas, food, or even coffee. This wasn't too bad though I rationalized, since most of our trips were short and didn't involve major investments. So you can imagine my surprise when Fred told me he had saved up and wanted to take me on a vacation to the beach. I was absolutely thrilled.

Turns out, that beach was Atlantic City -- I don't gamble. Fred however does, but I assumed we would still spend some time together at the shore. I was wrong. From the moment we got there he dragged me from casino to casino and refused to even consider going to the beach. He hadn't even bothered to pack a swim suit. Not to say that seeing the casinos wasn't neat. It was. I had never experienced the glamour of endless chain smoking, the hopeless clicking of the slot machines, or the women “working” the floor before. All of these side acts however paled in comparison to the real fun I experienced watching Fred lose money playing poker for hours on end.

Now I feel I should mention that when Fred had said he was saving up it turns out he didn't mean for a nice hotel or for going out to dinner. The money he had been saving was strictly for gambling. And I got to spend two days of watching my boyfriend, who had never so much as taken me out to dinner, blow $800 playing poker. Ok, that is actually not true. I only got to watch him blow $300. The other $500 was blown while I was sleeping -- he snuck out of the room at 4 AM to “get his money back.” At this point you may be wondering how we paid for meals, gas, and pretty much everything else on the way home. The answer is yours truly got to cover it all.

In the long run though I guess that was a small price to pay for getting Fred out of my life – which happened not long after – permanently.

I'm a Loser Baby, So Why Don't You....

2008-06-30T08:31:00.004-04:00

When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics - Part 1.

In a relationship, it is critical, and even necessary, to support your partner when they fall into hardship or difficult circumstances. However, in certain situations, this particular caveat is null and void.

Stringbean had a knack for "forgetting" to call when he got home after the bar or other activities, even after confirming that he would. We were in a long distance relationship, which made it all the more difficult to maintain trust and closeness that thousands of miles can obviously sabatoge. I'm not one to get upset about not calling per se - I am one to get upset about not calling if you said you would. It's a follow-through thing, nothing more. But that wasn't necessarily the issue during this particular event.

It was October, and I was upset that I hadn't been called the night before, but I continued about my business that day without pause. I was campaigning for a congressional candidate and couldn't have been happier waving signs and getting honked at out in the middle of the road. Then my cell phone rings. Rather than Stringbean calling me, it was a friend of his, whose name I will also protect by referring to him as Squatty.

Squatty: "Hey BJA, just wanted to give you an update on Stringbean's condition."

Why do girls get upset when you don't call when you say you will? Cuz if you get hurt or something else happens, we are left completely out of the loop, and distance only exacerbates the fear and worry.

Me: "What do you mean? What happened"

Squatty: "You mean you don't know???"

Uh... no.

Turns out brilliant Mr. Stringbean had gotten beyond wasted at a party the night before at a friend's apartment. Someone had made a comment that apparently made him angry, and he decided he wanted to leave. His friends, not wanting to support his death wish, told him no. They hid his keys and locked the door, while one of the bigger guys (lest we forget why Stringbean received the nickname...) stood in between him and the exit.

Stringbean was not about to be stopped however. Without thinking (obviously) he decided another exit was preferable. He jumped off the balcony.

It was a third story apartment.

Needless to say, Stringbean wound up in the hospital with broken bones and an alcohol violation. The ticket came from the fall, which I know may sound awkward, but follow me on this one. Stringbean didn't just yell out a carnal yell as he leapt from the balcony, but proceeded to justify his actions at the top of his lungs, disturbing the neighbors, by claiming he was, in fact, a "flying squirrel."

Sometimes I don't even know how to end these stories. And it's ridiculously pathetic this is only Part 1 of "When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics."

The Use of this Blog

2008-06-27T16:09:00.007-04:00

I feel the need to say something here.

We write on this blog to vent, to share, and to hopefully impart some knowledge on guys out there who don't understand why women lose their cool or get angry about something they do.

It's not meant to hurt (usually), but it is meant for those of us who read it (which is only those who write it and a few of the exes described herein.)

So for those of you who are angered by what you read here, grow up. You are welcome to contribute to our sister blog "Crazy Ho" and talk mad shit about us. Fortunately, we know when we screwed up in our relationships, just as much as when we are"vindicative," or even, excuse the language, a "cunt." And we make no apologies for it.

We don't use names to protect those who might be hurt. We use song titles when possible just as a standard. (See: OFFSPRING) We also don't check blogs every day of our exes, though we're sure they talk about us - even unkindly.

However, let's get one thing straight. We didn't make this shit up. Our commentaries are vivid and honest. Sometimes we make it a little more kindly to protect those who we still give a damn about. Be angry. But don't expect us to keep our mouths shut when we tried to end it amicably and find the tactics and actions of our exes to be vindictive and childish, too.

And that's ALL I have to say. Quit reading my blog if it makes you so damn bitter.

PS. Not a word that was said here was not said to your face. And you know that. I said every word to you because I'm not a bitch.

PPS. We're especially prone to post stories after we feel the ex has sufficiently moved on that it wouldn't evoke some sort of reaction. Or when they play the game of calling us things behind our back. We see that as a big ole' green light for sharing stories.

Hey, Why Don't You Get a Job?

2008-06-27T09:40:00.012-04:00

There's some comfort in blissful ignorance. Never knowing what's in store or what's down the road and having blind joy and excitement for the time to come is characteristic of a special kind of person. There's an old demotivational poster just for them.

"There is no greater joy than soaring high on the wings of your dreams, except maybe the joy of watching a dreamer who has nowhere to land but in the ocean of reality."

I understand the hope, the dream, the idealistic tendency to feel prepared, or the fake it till you make it mentality. But at some point, you have to also be realistic. And when all else fails, you have to at least try.

Diego is a bright guy. He's not the traditional loser we generally refer to on this site in that he's definitely intelligent. Perhaps that even exacerbates the disappointment we, as women, find with men who end up as loser-exes. Intelligence gives you such a leg-up and yet... I guess intellect isn't always followed by perfection, but the least we could ask for is proofreading.

Diego wanted to move to the big time. He wanted to leave his small college town and venture to the wide world of the big city, with big names, companies, and causes to boot. Being that I was already here, I was happy, even eager, to help. I have a few connections here and there, and know a few hiring managers, so I asked him to send me his resume.

Diego didn't have much experience to speak of. The trouble with having no experience in the field, in a town completely and utterly revolving around that exact field, tends to be that no one wants to hire you. When your star accomplishments out of undergrad were holding an office (not President) of one club, even though it was of considerable size, and two jobs as a waiter and a golf-course attendee... you're not turning heads easily. So I tried to help him improvise. Spice up the story, use descriptive verbs and emphasize the volunteer experience you have, right? Diego was by no means an idiot, and I had confidence he could handle anything one of these employers could throw at him if he could just get in front of them... but it would take some work.

Well, when I finally received the resume, it had a litany of problems. It was in different fonts, had misspelled words like February, switched tenses back and forth between present and past.... and just basically reeked of "do not hire me." To highlight the barrage of mistakes, I used Microsoft's nifty "Track Changes" tool. I corrected the spelling errors, rearranged bullet points, fine tuned the wording, and used a thesaurus for action verbs. After feeling like we had at least taken a step in the right direction, I returned the resume, with changes highlighted in red, to Diego. I wanted to ensure he saw where he'd made mistakes, and how to fix them and make his resume minimally acceptable.

I had really hoped my critiques had sunk in. What kind of message does it send your future employer if you can't read through something as important as your resume for mistakes? Let alone what do they think when you can't even stay in the right tense or mention "learning about the office environment" as one of your bullet points of what you did at an internship from high school....

The next day, he found a job he was interested in. Off went the resume to a prospective employer with my own email covertly attached in the "bcc" line, so as to prove he did actually send his resume and was moving forward on his own.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of a cover letter. You MUST introduce yourself and convey why you are not only interested in the job, but why they should be interested in you. This is especially critical when your resume lacks any substantive experience! There was but a sentence, urging the recruiter to review his resume and stating his intent to move upon the offer of a job. (On this note, you MUST say I will be there on this day at this time, may I meet with you or your hiring manager!!! You can't say I won't move unless I get hired by you because not only am I not a local, but I am unsure of whether or not I'm willing to take the leap unless you leap first.)

And perhaps I exaggerated... he had two sentences. The other offered an interview by either phone or email. Email, folks.

The last, and more heinous offense, was that the resume was still redlined. All the changes I had made, comments, misspelled words, crossed out words, rearrangements, etc... were all there highlighted on the screen for the potential hiring manager to see.

(Note: Picture not mine. Saw it online and it cracked me up. Fit well here. Visit www.CartoonStock.com for more hilarious ones!)

Needless to say, I was mortified. While I do not doubt that Diego is plenty intelligent and would make a good employee to someone in the DC area, I worried after seeing him make this mistake, and if I was doubting him, you know some office assistant was laughing her ass off and hanging that thing on the wall as the ideal of what not to do to get hired.

It was an honest mistake, to be sure. But let's get serious here. Any hiring manager would see that as a fatal flaw simply because you didn't properly prepare a document, nor do you show yourself to be adept at proofreading at first glance. You can't naively expect to be hired just because you're sweet and southern. Jobs up here look for demonstrated talent - and you have to show them to get them to see it, even if we know you have it.

Post-script: He improved his ability to submit resumes over time and got pretty good at them, along with cover letters. And, while Diego never got hired in Washington, he found employment at a local middle school coaching football.

Alcohol, Part 2

2008-06-16T12:20:00.005-04:00

In my last entry about Fred’s drunken shenanigans, I mentioned that it was uncommon to get an alcohol violation at my school. Well, it's damn near impossible to get two!

But somehow Fred managed to accomplished this. I know, impressive, right?

During his senior year of college, he assisted with freshman orientation -- actually how we met – we were both coordinators. Anyway, one of the events was a party for freshman on a boat that was, of course, alcohol free.

Now, I know that there really aren't alcohol-free events during orientation and a few of the upperclassmen assisting with orientation would have a couple of beers beforehand. But, Fred never knew when to say when.

Consequently, upon arrival one of the event planners – who also happened to be his roommate -- told him to go home. He ignored this suggestion. The orientation director then caught a wiff of Fred and saw that he could barely even stand up and fired him in front of everyone.

Hurt and blaming his roommate, Fred returned to his dorm. Rather than just passing out like a normal drunk person, he decided to get even by pissing all over his roommate's bed.

Not before crying about not going on the boat ride though. No joke, he fricking cried about it. Seriously. Like effing tears pouring down his face, choked-up, hysterical crying. I cannot possibly emphasize this enough. This isn't really relevant to the rest of the story. I just wanted to point out that Fred cried about not riding on a boat.

Prior to his roommate returning Fred was pretty much guaranteed an alcohol violation courtesy of his display at the boat. But, when his roommate returned home to a bed dripping wet in piss and reported him he acquired even more charges. Then, he threw the soiled bedding into the garden below his balcony, thus acquiring even more charges. It was an alcohol violation bonanza!

Alcohol, Part 1

2008-06-04T08:44:00.004-04:00

I wouldn't say Fred was an alcoholic. I don’t judge -- well actually I do judge but I don’t make clinical diagnosis so let’s just say he was a damn moron. His escapades are so ridiculous that they need to be broken up in to three different entries – this is the first:

Most college freshmen have crazy alcohol-induced adventures shortly after moving away from home. Of those, a few unfortunate or stupid people end up getting an alcohol violations. At my school, it was really really hard to get in trouble for drinking too much. One would have to do something incredibly stupid to achieve this. Fred did.

Anyway, upon arriving at his room after a night of heavy underage drinking, Fred decided that pants were not for him. Underwear was also not for him. In fact, he wanted to be "Fred just a shirt," and insisted that everyone address him as such. He also, as his moniker suggested, was wearing only a shirt.

He proceeded to parade down the coed hall in just a shirt. A great way to meet -- and alienate -- your classmates during your first week of school!

His friends attempted to keep him confined him to his room, but were unsuccessful. The RA, who refused to address him as “Fred just a shirt” promptly called the paramedics who threw him into the back of an ambulance and sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Fred did accomplish his goal – while getting his stomach forcibly pumped he did get to wear a hospital gown – without pants!

I'm just kidding, they gave him pants. And a big fat alcohol violation.

Bottle of Red, Bottle of White

2008-05-22T09:42:00.003-04:00

Have your ever dated someone aspires to be classy? If so you may appreciate the following.

While in college , Fred decided he didn’t want to look out of place at dinner parties (although the only “dinner parties” he ever had to worry about attending involved pizza and PBR), so he decided to become an expert on wine. It seemed a little odd for someone his age, but I didn't mind. After all, it is kind of really sexy when a guy knows his way around a wine list.

Of course, he assumed I would teach him everything myself. But while I do enjoy drinking it as much as the next girl, I really am the worst person to ask about wine. The truth is I only go to wineries for the free alcohol. I usually don't pay attention to anything I am being told about the wines. I can't taste the damn vanilla undertones and I don't really care how the light refracts in your pinot grigio. But, I suppose compared to his friends who exclusively drank everclear, I was the closest thing he had to a sommelier.

Anyway, Fred insisted we go to the wine store one day so he could pick out a few things. When we arrived though, he entered an almost fugue like state of fascination at the sheer variety of wines. He had only ever known Franzia Red, Franzia White and Franzia Pink. The wine store was truly an exciting and educational experience. Standing in the California white section, he asked me the difference between a riesling and a chardonnay. I told him that it's pretty much the grapes they use (there is no doubt in my mind that there is a more elaborate answer than this, but I sure as hell don’t know it…if you really feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but I most likely won’t remember anyway).

"Oh, yeah, they use grapes for white wine, right…” he commented. “And so, for different types of red wine, they use different types of watermelon?"

Seriously. And yes, I know there are novelty fruit wines that probably do use watermelon, but that is not what he was referring to.

He was 22 years old and thought red wine came from watermelons. But then again, this was the guy who thought that champagne glasses were called "flukes" (yes, fluke, as in whale tail, or barb, or part of an anchor, or accidental advantage, fluke) instead of "flutes." He probably thought vodka came from hotdogs, too.

I wish I had let him ask the wine store staff this question.

Till Death to Us Part... Or you know, whenev.

2008-05-02T21:47:00.004-04:00

Weddings are bright, cheerful, and momentous occasions. The bride and groom share their new family with all their friends and loved ones, and all come to share in their joy. Granted, we all know that in a matter of years they'll be at each others throats, but that comes with the territory of tying the knot.

For the bridal party, weddings are even more hectic. Yes, we always must cater to the whims and worries of the bride, and we do so gladly. But we shouldn't have our own worries.

For me, the majority of the trouble came after the wedding itself. A close friend and former boyfriend of mine was my date to the wedding - from hereon referred to as "The Date." He happily accompanied me and even, quite sweetly, wrapped my gift for me after the airport had rudely ruined my careful packaging. And because... well I'm bad at wrapping anyway, so it was probably for the best.

Following the happy newlywed's send-off after the reception, the rest of us took off for some fun. The city is rife with bars, dance halls, jazz bands, and clubs. We went to a few of the town's most famous locations, renowned for their delightful elixirs of excessive alcoholic content. No city in these United States is more well known for the party life. (Hint - less gambling, more drinking. And beads.)

The Date and I had a long history though. We had been off and on for nearly a year. But, much to his chagrin, I had met someone new and I wasn't about to cash out for an old love who lived thousands of miles away from where I had moved after college. While this certainly was painful for the Date to hear, and surely I could have put it slightly better to him when I explained that I was falling for someone else... it still does not excuse the remainder of the evening.

I was tired. Waking up early to be wedding-wing-man takes a lot out of a girl! So by midnight I was dragging, and by 1am I headed back to the hotel. The Date stayed out with the Maid of Honor, the Best Man, a few other members of the bride and groom's party, and a few old friends of the couple. These guests included my former roommate from my last year in college. Nice girl, but at times... how do I put this delicately... overly friendly with members of the opposite sex. And by at times, I mean many many times over the course of my living with her. Not every roommate keeps a tally board.

I'm still a little sketchy on the details of the evening. And suffice it to say, I'm ok with it remaining that way. The Date did eventually return to our hotel room. At 5am. I didn't think much of it at the time, because this particular city has bars that open their doors to thirsty patrons twenty-four hours a day. Regularly! But I also did not need to hear what had happened through the night.

Remember, this was my ex. The Date and I had been together for awhile but had broken up after he had made a... bad judgment call.

Well, he made another one.

The Date had gone to my old apartment. Where my ex-roommate still lived. He had gone with said roommate. He had accompanied her into the room next door to the one where he had visited me over the course of our relationship.

I won't get into the nitty-gritty. It's one thing to partake in these acts. It's another to be drunk when such horrendous choices are made. And it is yet another to come back to your ex and tell her what you have just done to her former roommate. We may have been over, but let's put our thinking caps on and know better than to be downright vindictive and crude.

Next time, no former boyfriends will be chosen as my date to a wedding. Only currents or completely platonic friends.

Negotiations over.

Drink it up

2008-04-11T08:57:00.007-04:00

Soda molds. I didn't realize this right away. I suppose it ought to be intuitively obvious – it is wet and sugary. But, I think I had always kept urban legends in the back of my mind about how Coke's acidity makes it a great car battery/highway/toilet/grease cleaner. I realize that none of these are true, but the idea still must have stuck on some level.

Also, there was the fact that prior to dating Shrek, I had never seen, or heard of, a soda molding. Like 99% of the population, after opening a soda, I reseal it, consume it, or dispose of it within an hour. Aside from not wanting to attract flies, there is the issue of a half-empty can of soda being a spilling hazard. Being clumsy, I make a point to not leave anything around that could potentially be knocked-over and create a mess. Shrek did not share my diligence in soda management.

Shrek drank more soda than anyone I have ever met (a combination of this and poor oral hygiene contributed to his nasty-ass teeth, but that is another story). He went through 3 cases of it a week. And this is not counting the sodas he bought from the machines in the dorms, the food court on campus or at Burger King. Shrek was also not known for his cleanliness. His dorm was always messy and dirty.

One day, he had gotten stuck working at the front desk of the building for a lot longer than expected (the person with the shift after him decided to leave town without bothering to tell anyone). I felt a little bad for him and decided to do his laundry since I knew he had planned to when he was done with work. I gathered up about 8 loads worth of dirty clothes (it had been a while) and took over the entire laundry room.

When I went back to his room to put his detergent away, I noticed that his room was really gross. Not wanting to bring clean clothes into a dirty room, I decided to throw away some of the trash lying around. I put all the paper plates and candy bar wrappers sitting around in a trash bag. I then went to round up the 20-some soda cans sitting throughout his room and realized that many of them still had soda inside.

So, I took as many as I could carry (4 – I have small hands) across the hall to the bathroom so I could empty them out in the sink. I poured out the first one. Out came some flat Cherry Coke…and a small white mass.

I assumed it must have been something other than mold. I mean really, who leaves soda cans sitting out long enough to mold?

I poured out the next can and even more white stuff came out. At this point I realized what was going on. I was totally grossed-out by the idea of dumping moldy soda in the sink. But, I was even more grossed out by the thought of Shrek just ignoring them for the rest of the year. So, I opted to continue with my plan of emptying all the soda cans and disposing of them.
Out of all the cans in his room, there were three that had no visible traces of mold inside. Three. I have no idea how long it takes a soda to mold to the degree that some of these had, but I am guessing it is a few months.

The worst part was, even after having a talk about the moldy soda, he did not get any better about cleaning up. The next time I was over (a few days later), there were 6 new open cans sitting on his desk.

It's Goodbye Time

2008-03-31T20:16:00.003-04:00

The Sap was a nice guy. At least at the beginning. He was sweet, even went a little overboard by bringing a dozen roses to our first date. Granted, it was a week after my birthday, and he felt compelled to make sure I caught that he noticed and had listened the day I met him. It was actually a very nice gesture.

Our second date took a turn towards stalker. Let's talk about bringing up what a girl wore on the day before your date, when she had not planned or even noticed that you had "seen" her. Let's also talk about dropping the L-bomb. And, to really round it out, let's find out what you want to name your kids.

The Sap and my budding relationship quickly ended. A quick talk explaining that we weren't in the same place and I was no longer interested in pursuing this relationship, and I felt the deal was done. A few calls over the next week that were not returned, seemed to send a similar message. (Apparently, explicitly saying "no, I do not want to date you anymore" just doesn't do the trick.)

But the Sap was not done.

Six months later, (SIX MONTHS) I get a text message. From a number I do not know but has the area code that the Sap would have possessed.

"BJA, hey it's Sap. I wanted you to know I haven't met anyone who is as smart and beautiful as you and I really want to see you again. Please call me. My house number is __________, my pager is ___________, or you can email me at _____@_____.com. Hope to hear from you soon. You are the most amazing woman ever."

OMG. Stalker's suck.

High School Never Ends

2008-03-31T19:55:00.004-04:00

I don't know about you, but when high school ended, I was relieved. No more pencils, no more books, etc. kind of relieved. I had college to look forward to! String Bean, on the other hand, wasn't going to college. He had actually graduated the year before me and hadn't managed to find a way to get into a decent community college, let alone a four year institution and a far cry from the ivy league.

Here's the brutal truth about those who don't go to college. For a large portion of them (but by no means all, there are many brilliant non-college grads who do very well for themselves), high school was IT. The highlight of their lives! It was all downhill from there, right? But for those of us who either went to school or at least matured in some manner (although many who even went to college never saw the light of maturity...), we never wanted to revisit our high school years.

So when String Bean said a friend of his was throwing a house party the summer after my freshman year of college, I was perfectly content with going. I'd just come home from college, where house parties meant kegs, having fun, letting loose, and generally having a fantastic time because the cops weren't coming by. I wasn't 21 yet, but who cares? We were blocks from campus and had plenty of friends to make sure everyone could walk at the end of the night, or at least one person could be the one we leaned on. (Very little "law enforcement" in the Big Easy...)

Much to my surprise, String Bean drives us to this hole in the wall house in the middle of lower suburbia on the outskirts of my home town. This isn't a college level party... its not even in an area where college kids live... let alone where cops won't dare travel. Worse - it was some high schooler's house.

She was 14. Not completely unfortunate looking, but certainly not the queen bee of anything, and definitely barely out of diapers. Have you ever noticed how those younger than us think that the more the show the hotter they look? Let's remember that this mindset is only expected from strippers or for costume parties. If your midriff is showing and you're jailbait - you darn well better put some clothing on. This concept apparently escaped these young high school bimbos.

We arrive, I disdainfully examine the "party." Guess what we're here for. We're the alcohol buyers. The high schoolers fish through their pockets for the twenties they stole from their parents' wallets. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased. But I used their money to get some fine liquors I wanted, so I felt at least some sense of revenge.

When we returned, the drinking began. That part was expected. What wasn't on my list of things to do was run from the cops. But that is exactly what happened.

Let's be clear - I had high school parties in high school. But we weren't retarded enough to let the drunk guys go out back and have wrestling contests while blasting music at 1am. And never, EVER did I have to deal with diving over a fence to escape cops who actually care about noise and underage drinking violations.

Since when is it ok to take your girlfriend to a party thrown by 14 year old skanks? Thank goodness that ends after college. Or at least I really really hope I don't run into any losers who think that's ok at forty.

Seriously. Why were we there?

I do not miss high school.

Follow Your Nose

2008-03-17T19:58:00.005-04:00

Sometimes when you need to blow your nose, a box of tissues is just not close by. I understand this. In college, I would only buy tissues if I had gotten sick enough to go through them in a few hours. The rest of the time, I used toilet paper. Sometimes even napkins. I am not ashamed to admit my gross habits (for the record though, I have gotten past this and currently have three boxes of tissues on my desk ... but that is only because work pays for them since they are office supplies).

When tissues are unavailable, there are alternatives, some better than others. If I had to rank the alternatives, I would put toilet paper at the top of that list, followed by cheap napkins (softer than the nice ones), then nice napkins, then paper towels, and then...creative options. Thankfully, I have never gotten to the creative options. Fred, on the other hand, has.

One night I was at his apartment making enchiladas and he decided that he absolutely had to blow his nose immediately. Sure, there were napkins and paper towels in the kitchen. And there was toilet paper in the bathroom. If he were truly a purist, I am sure his anal-retentive roommate had some tissues to spare (Actual real tissues! What a concept!). But Fred opted for the creative option. His choice? A corn tortilla. I'm sure his inner monolouge was something like "I'm such a rebel, I am blowing my nose with food!"

I can't even begin to describe how nauseating it is to see someone blow their nose into the food you are cooking, but trust me, it was not a good time.

I was completely appalled that he decided to use a corn tortilla to blow his nose out of some sick interest rather than out of necessity. Furthermore, an unfried corn tortilla is actually kind of crumbly and not really a good material for this, ergo, it did not exactly work out the way he had hoped. Not to mention, they were much more expensive than any other option and they were what I was fucking cooking for dinner.

I don't know if he thought he was being innovative, funny or both. I found his display to be none of the above. And he was making his own dinner for a very long time after that.

Ode to Fred's Car

2008-02-26T10:58:00.014-05:00

Every girl out there has dated a guy with a bad car at one point. And anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I've dated some guys with really REALLY bad cars…like Shrek and the Reagan administration era teal station wagon. For the most part, I am willing to overlook things like cars if the guy in question has other good qualities. I mean, it is kind of really hot if a guy drives something fast and European (I'll let you know as soon as I find one) but, a great car isn't the first thing I look for in a guy. And besides, you don't come to LoserEx to read about hot guys with fast cars. You come to read stories like this one.

Fred's car – a little Japanese number - was on its last wheel. The bumper had been knocked almost completely off in a rear-end collision and was held on – I'm not exaggerating - by bungee cords. The sides were dented in and covered in deep dings from the time Fred got his ass handed to him by a one night stand's boyfriend. But that's another story.

At this point I want to make it clear that I understand that things happen, sometimes cars get dents. In fact I've caused a fair share of dents in cars – both mine and other peoples (hopefully not yours ;). But there is a world of difference between the "Hey, it looks like the paint is a little scratched" and "Hey, your fucking door is about to fall off!!" situations. Fred's car fell into the second category.

The aforementioned incidents resulting in the detached bumper and dented sides were both reported to insurance and money was collected from each incident. However, Fred decided that it was better to keep this money for potential mechanical problems rather than use it to fix the extensive cosmetic damage.

I certainly understand wanting to save this money for something more vital to the operation of the vehicle than the appearance of the door. However, when the bumper is dragging in the street and shooting sparks next the gas tank, I think maybe it's ok to address cosmetic issues. But, I digress.

Fred wanted to save money for mechanical problems. Fine. Except for when those mechanical problems inevitably arose, the money was no where to be found.

So, with a complete lack of regard for the condition of his vehicle, Fred managed run his jalopy into the ground until the transmission gave out. This meant I had to chauffeur his ass around for the next six weeks while he tried to come up with the money to get his car fixed. Not the best situation, but the fact that he actually had a driver's license at least gives him a few points over Fruit Fly.

He did eventually get the transmission replaced, but 8 months later, the compressor went out. At this time, it was early spring, so I didn't really notice. But by the time it was 90 degrees and humid that summer, I sure as hell noticed.

I had (wrongly) assumed that Fred, like any normal person would have gotten his compressor fixed when he realized it was broken. But, Fred was not a normal person. I realized in the middle of a road trip on a particularly hot day that he had not bothered to replace the compressor.

Of course, this was also the day that we ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam for 2 hours. At which time, he decided to pass the time by rolling down the windows and blasting Raffi. I should have rallied up all the poor people within an earshot and kicked Fred's ass on the non-dented side of his car. At least then it would have matched.

Fred's reason for not fixing the compressor was that it only affected the air conditioner and the ability for the car to start. He decided air conditioning was not a priority and he was willing to screw around with his car for a good 10 minutes to get it to turn on each time.

So needless to say, at the end of the summer I felt a bit relieved to go back to school and get away from the car and Fred for a little while. At least until he decided to visit me. Fred opted to drive to my school (at $150, a plane ticket was prohibitively expensive). After a short ten hour drive he showed up on the steps of my dorm. I had once again assumed that he had replaced the compressor before taking such a long drive, but I was wrong. And of course, it was when he was at my dorm that his car did not start.

I had to call AAA to come tow his busted-ass car to the local garage. Upon arriving at the garage, Fred announced that he had no money, so I had to pay the $60 labor fee for the inspection.

But after the inspection Fred decided they were going to charge him too much to fix his car, so he demanded to go elsewhere. Great. Except, his car didn't start.

I had to call the tow truck AGAIN and have them tow the damn thing to the parking lot in front of Fruit Fly's house. This was a very awkward conversation. Also, try calling AAA sometime and asking them to tow a car to a residential parking lot. Trust me, it takes a lot of pleading.

Now, after a long fun filled weekend of towing and gas stations I had Fred stuck with me, and he apparently had to be at work in 12 hours. Despite the fact he worked at a fricking electronics store at the time as a sales associate, he refused to call out.

I had exams the next day, there was no way I could drive him. He refused to take a Greyhound bus. He refused to rent a car. So flying his ass out was the only option . The ticket for the flight leaving in 5 hours was $850. Guess whose card that went on?

A month later, Fred drove back down with his dad so they could try to fix the car. They didn't fix it per se, but they got it to start by pushing it down a hill (somehow this took 8 hours). His dad then had to drive the car all the way back home, knowing that if the car stopped, it would not start again.

I hope that poor man didn't have to pee during the long trip home.

You are My Princess...Right?

2008-02-13T11:04:00.003-05:00

Romance goes a long way in relationships. Sometimes the tiniest bit of effort can produce such astonishing results that women just melt. Flowers for instance. Jewelry for sure. A card in the mail for no purpose. A note on the car window. Candy. (Yum!) Making dinner. Writing a fictional story... wait... that's a little much.

I had been dating Gumby for a little over a month. I had found that I really didn't have the time or energy to devote to the relationship as school got more intense and the college search kicked into gear. I felt as though I was neglecting him, and I told him as such.

His response was to write me a story.

Let me preface this by letting you know how Gumby and I met. He was working at the local grocery store where I lived in Colorado, and I was a friendly shopper. My flip flop shoe had broken while I was in class, and I needed a quick cheap replacement. So I swung into the grocery store which I had noticed was offering flip flops for $2. Killer deal when you needed a quick fix in the shoe department. Gumby struck up a conversation, and asked me out. We went on a double bowling date with a friend of his named Ian. And from there it became a relationship.

Now, I can get to his "story" in response to me saying I didn't really have the time for him.

"Once upon a time in a high mountain kingdom there lived a beautiful princess. One day she came to a stable far from her castle. The lowly stable hand was awed by her beauty and offered to assist her with whatever she needed."

(Pause for the corniness to sink in....)

"When he muscled up the courage, he asked the beautiful princess if she would like to meet him in the village, where they could sample the local fare and enjoy the festivities of the night. When she agreed, he was smitten."

(Seriously.)

"The agreed upon night, the stable boy travelled far into the hills, onward and onward until he reached her castle. He was accompanied by a fellow squire, let's call him Ian, as he ventured forward on the clear and crisp spring night. For weeks, the two frolicked through the fields, enjoying the serenity of the mountain air."

(Yeesh...)

"Then, one day, the princess told the stable hand that things were just too busy. And she worried that she was neglecting him and the time they spent together. But the stable hand was not worried. He knew that the princess cared for him deeply and was only concerned about hurting him. So he assured her, that any time she had available was alright by him. Just hearing her voice once a week was enough to put him on cloud nine."

It went on in that vein. Essentially, the idea was: don't break up with me, I'll be fine just seeing you less and still calling you my girlfriend.

This type of behavior is unacceptable. It comes across as needy. We women do not want needy guys. So here's the thing - even a cute story is not enough to get a girl to stay with you when she feels her schedule is no longer conducive to a relationship. Our goal, or at least my goal, was to not hold Gumby back because I knew he would eventually resent that I never saw him. I knew that I would eventually resent never seeing him.

Relationships take dedication and time. They do not require neediness. So leave the princess crap at home.

Feeling Lucky?

2008-02-11T08:17:00.001-05:00

Fred and I used to go to a Mexican restaurant near his house quite frequently. Well, more frequently than anywhere else -- he didn't like to go out much. Anyway, the first time we went, I ordered steak fajitas which were incredibly good, but ended up being rather large. So the next time we went, we ended up splitting an order of the steak fajitas.

Now, I should point out a mundane detail that really didn't catch my attention the first time either. Since I ordered a meat dish that involved cutting, the waiter had brought me a steak knife. The second time we went, since we were splitting the entree, the waiter just gave the steak knife to Fred. He made some comment about having received the 'lucky knife,' but I didn't really think too much of it. I just assumed this was his lame-ass attempt at being funny.

The third time we went, after we had ordered, he looked at me excitedly, and said "I wonder who's going to get the lucky knife this time." I looked at him and asked what exactly he thought the purpose of the lucky knife even was. He told me "I'm not sure, I think it's just some kind of tradition in Mexico."

D'oh. I still have no idea how someone who was in his mid-twenties managed to never grasp the concept of a steak knife. He honestly thought it was just a little lucky treat that someone at each table was randomly rewarded with for eating dinner. Seriously, how the hell did he function?

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part IV

2008-02-07T09:21:00.001-05:00

I have some minor health issues that are not particularly life threatening, but are particularly painful. As a result, I have some very needed prescription painkillers.

The first time the Dud was over at my apartment, he was snooping through my stuff and came across my prescriptions. I explained to him why I have them and that they are very much needed. However, my explanation apparently went in one ear and out the other.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed that my pills started to disappear-- several at once. And usually after the Dud had spent the night. Seeing that he was stealing my medication, I started hiding them in my dresser, thinking that he would be less inclined to take them if they were not in plain sight.

That didn't stop him. I came out of the shower one morning to see him digging through my drawers. When I asked him what he was doing, he nonchalantly asked "Hey, where are your drugs?" as if this were a perfectly acceptable and legitimate thing for him to be doing.

While I do not condone taking a medication prescribed to another person, I would at least be able to understand where he was coming from had he been suffering from a kidney stone or something. But, no. He was in no pain whatsoever and was taking my painkillers recreationally.

I was livid that he honestly felt no shame in taking medication from a sick person. That's like stealing food from starving children in a third world country (I mean in concept, not in severity). Who the hell does that?

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part III

2008-02-06T10:09:00.001-05:00

Once again, the Dud had spent a weekday night over and was getting in the way of me getting ready for work. I decided to lock him out of my bathroom so I could straighten my hair in peace.

That didn’t last long. Within seconds of turning the lock, I heard him opening my dresser then announcing that he was rummaging my underwear drawer. I calmly asked him to stop. He was quiet, so I assumed he had.

A minute later, he asked “If you came out here and I was masturbating with this blue and white lacy thong, would you be pissed?”

No, I am not making this up. I explained to him that I would be pissed and that when I came out, he better not have said undergarment.

A minute later, when I came out of the bathroom, he was in my bed, being intimate with my blue and white lacy thong. Gross. I immediately took it away from him and threw it in my hamper. I have washed it several times since, yet still feel too disgusted by it to ever wear it.

I'm sure there are people out there who would not find this offensive. I am sure there are even people who would be turned on by this. I am not one of those people. I find this incredibly offensive. Perhaps this makes me prude (and trust me, I've been called this many times before).

However, nasty or not, he did something that he knew I would find offensive and disgusting. In fact, he did it primarily for the purpose of ticking me off. While I am incredibly bothered by the nastiness of the situation, I am more bothered by the fact he had the audacity to come to my house and purposely try to do things that would be offensive to me after I specifically requested he not do those things. He honestly found it amusing to do things that were upsetting and offensive to me and expected me to just let it slide.

The way I see it, this is on par with me going to his house, taking a crap in his living room, then thinking it's funny that he is upset by that and expecting him to get over it. It just doesn't seem reasonable, does it?

Death of a Salesman

2008-02-04T15:31:00.001-05:00

I try not to pick up guys in bars. Granted, it happens, and occasionally I can meet someone who shares my affinity for tasty liquors. Mistake number one should have been meeting the guy at a bar anyway, but whatever.

Salesman seemed perfectly normal. In fact, he was relatively interesting, with a cute laugh and everything. We went out for dinner the next night, and had a great time. He called me a week or so later, letting me know that he would be in town again for a business meeting (he lived an hour or so away) and that he'd like to take me to dinner, again. How sweet, right?

He came to pick me up, and I noticed his suitcase in the backseat. I asked if he had checked into his hotel yet, and if he needed to do that before we went to dinner.

"Well... I didn't get a hotel...I was kind of waiting to see how the night went."

Hang on. Not only did I just discover Salesman to be a cheapskate, he also had assumed I was easy.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation, I told him that in dire circumstances I might could offer my guest room.

He wasn't too much more creepster other than being a hornball, so I set up the mattress in my guest room and told him he'd be welcome to sleep there. In the morning, I woke him up so I could head off to work.

After glancing in my room, he actually got pissy with me that I had a big bed and made him sleep on a blow-up mattress.

I'm sorry. You made some incorrect assumptions here that I will now point out. These are surefire ways to leave you out of my life completely should the opportunity come up again.

A) I am not easy. Taking me out to dinner twice does not equal coming home with me. You're lucky I even offered the blow-up mattress.
B) You're cheap. Get a hotel. Your business pays for it anyway.
C) Don't assume that you're smooth enough to get in my pants on a second date. You're not.

Salesman could sell things - but not his ability to woo a girl. I'm not buyin.

Nice Hands, Lobster

2008-01-24T11:02:00.001-05:00

To pay a last tribute to a nearby dive bar that was closing the next weekend, a bunch of friends and I went for a final night of debauchery and libations.

I was there with a few of my guy friends, and I was the only female in the bunch. One starts macking on some girl, which I support whole-heartedly. The boy needed some attention and she was certainly cute and lively enough to be a good fit for him. Bravo!

And then of course, a few of the guys get catty. My friend had picked up the girl in 10 minutes. I felt a challenge coming on.

These guys didn't think I could pick up a guy in 10 minutes or less. Psh. Watch this.

I saw a cute guy in a red shirt. I made eye contact, smiled, and looked away. This happened once more, and I had no doubts the guy took notice. Less than five minutes later, he was up at the bar getting a drink. He slipped right behind me at the only openish spot on the bar where the bartenders could get to him.

I made my move by slowly backing up and laughing at a joke one of the guys told. (It was opportune!) Bumping him, I apologized, and turned back around.

Don't get me wrong - I was blatantly picking this guy up. It was not the least bit hidden from either of us, though my friends may have missed it. But I wasn't expecting quite this response...

I had my back turned to red-shirt guy, and was back discussing who knows what with my friends when I felt it. Red-shirt guy pinched my ass.

It was obvious. No other way to explain it. And no other hands to place the blame on. Red-shirt guy had copped a feel and/or made a pass at me by pinching my rear end!

Whoa there! Little forward. So I turned around, and in response, said, "subtle."

He turned to me, rather sheepishly, and asked, "too bold?"

Too bold? Guys, pinching a girl's ass makes you a lobster. Especially when you are also wearing a red shirt. Let's be classy here.

Granted, I still responded, and some of you may think that amounts to success. It does not. I immediately wondered how many girls actually respond to ass pinching and how many Red-Shirt guy had gotten to go home with him based on this type of action.

To make things clear to all you guys out there - don't get pinchy till the second date, at least. Then at least I like you for something other than your lobster hands.

And on a side note - don't ever test my skills in picking up a guy. It took me less than ten minutes to get my ass pinched, let alone getting the guy interested.

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part II

2008-01-24T11:00:00.001-05:00

The way I explain The Dud to my friends is that he is the type of guy I'd want to go to bed with, but not the type of guy I'd want to wake up with. In fact, waking up with him was quite an ordeal.

Aside from the usual 5 more minutes game, trying to convince me to call out of work and taking too long in the bathroom (therefore limiting my hair and make up time), I had to worry about him staying the hell out of my things.

One of the many items that he seemed to have a particularly strong interest in was my sorority t-shirts. For those of you who do not know me, I am not a particularly large girl. Most of my t-shirts from sorority date parties are youth sizes. The Dud wore a men's large in shirts. This means, that in order to find a t-shirt in my closet large enough for him, he would have to take several out and go through them.

He would try on several, stretching them all out in the process, until he finally would find a random hand-me-down shirt that was an adult small or medium that he was able to stretch enough to fit over his shoulders.

By the time I got out of the shower, there would be a big pile of t-shirts all over my bed, and The Dud would be proudly wearing a shirt that was entirely too small for him and asking if he could wear it home.

I know there is a bit of a double standard here. I love wearing clothes of the men I date. In fact, one of my dirty secrets is that I still keep (and wear) clothes of several of my exes. But the difference is this: I wear my exes' over-sized t-shirts and boxers in the comfort of my own home. The Dud wore my t-shirts out to run errands. I can't even imagine the looks he must have gotten from people. There was something truly disturbing about seeing a pink bid day shirt stretched across man-sized shoulders.

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part I

2008-01-22T11:56:00.001-05:00

I absolutely hate babysitting. I used to watch two of the most unruly children imaginable. If I turned my back for one second to put in a movie, by the time I turned back around, they would have broken something. In addition, one had bladder control issues and once peed every single pair of pants he owned. Basically, I was scared out of ever wanting to have or be around kids at a very early age.

But as much as I hated babysitting two children under the age of 8, it was nowhere near as bad as having to babysit a 25 year old. In a lot of ways, the Dud was worse than the unruly children.

Once, his fumbling around in my kitchen woke me up around 4 in the morning (on a Tuesday), so I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing by the refrigerator with a large drink in his hand and some of it spilled on the floor. With a stupid grin on his face, he told me he just wanted an orange juice. I knew better. I took a sip of his drink and found that it was mostly vodka. Not only was I annoyed that he seemed to think it was acceptable to drink a ton of my vodka (I do not drink cheap alcohol), it was fricking 4 in the morning and I was sleeping. Why on Earth did he need a stiff drink at 4 in the fricking morning?

Not to mention, his late night shenanigans made him not want to get up when I was getting ready for work. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him stay in my apartment unattended after the fiasco from the night before, so i ended up practically dragging him to my porch and calling a cab to come get him.

Sadly, this is only one of several stories about why The Dud cannot be left unattended.

The Sky is Falling

2008-01-15T16:42:00.001-05:00

My sophomore year of college I got a free bed from my Aunt and Uncle. It was a loft bed, which is similar to a bunk bed but lacks a bottom bunk. Instead of another bed, underneath the bunk was a desk and a small fouton I liked to study on. I had wooden floors, and a kinda modern steel bookshelf that you could stick together and arrange how you wanted it. I really enjoyed the setup, but didn't recognize the potential pitfalls until I dated Rock.

We'd been seeing each other for awhile, so at some point he earned a trip home. We cooked dinner, watched a movie, and otherwise had a fun night. We fell asleep on the couch for some portion of the night. When I woke up, I shook him and suggested we go sleep on my bed since it was more comfortable.

Sidenote: I'm not beating around the bush here. This is literally how this happened. I'm not trying to skirt the issue of whether something more than sleeping was occuring - it wasn't.

Like I said, my bed is essentially a bunk bed. You have to climb up the ladder on the side to make it to the top, as well as avoid hitting your head on the fan which just barely hangs over a small portion of the foot of the bed. I turned off the fan to avoid any mishaps.

When we made it onto the bed, I thought we were all clear.

A few hours later, I hear a huge crash and the sound of steel bookshelves flying. I look to my side and realize my guest had fallen out of the bed - like a rock. Somehow, he managed to miss the fouton which would have made for a softer landing. Instead he swung further underneath the bed, landed on the steel bookshelf and the hard wood floors.

Now perhaps this is just clumsy. Or just unfortunate circumstances. In fact, I'd be willing to put money on that. But still, there is nothing funnier than your boyfriend falling out of the top bunk of a bed. I mean, anyone falling out of bed really would have been just as funny, but it was hilarious.

As I giggle, he starts laughing with me. Of course his laughter was mixed with a number of "oww"s and "that hurt!" I got him some ice for his back and we went back to sleep.

Later in the week, I asked if he wanted to come over again. He told me he wanted to be nowhere near my "demon bed." At first I thought he was joking, but no, he literally said he would never stay at my place again.

Here's a thought, Rock. Just don't fall off the bed! It's not hard! Do you fall out of a normal bed? This thing was a full size. It's not like we were squished and having to be in close quarters to where if you rolled funny it would happen again. Just don't flail and tada you don't fall! I even turned off the fan to avoid him getting hit in the face, which meant the room was a proverbial inferno until I opened a window. I thought it was loser proof.

Way to prove me wrong.

It's Peanut Butter and Jelly Time!

2008-01-14T16:47:00.002-05:00

Drunk dialing is not necessarily the greatest idea... ever. While you certainly can get things off your chest that in other circumstances you may not be able to properly put into words (even though you could avoid slurring if you did so without drinking beforehand), phoning exes, currents, or aquaintances is about as immature as you can get. There is simply nothing that can't wait till you're sober that you need to get done. Unless of course, it's for a midnight rendezvous of somesort - then you better not be so drunk it's... how do I put this delicately?... not worth it.

Drunk dialing you may remember in the morning. But there's something worse, and though most people still categorize it as drunk dialing, I think there's such thing as wasted dialing. If you're competely wasted, there's a high probability that you should not be using your phone, period, as you will not recognize how drunk you are when you make the call.

I got a call from an ex - who will now be referred to as "PBJ" after this story - late on a saturday night after he and I had gone out with different sets of friends. He wanted to meet up. Not thinking much of this phone call, and under the impression it was a drunk dial not a wasted call.

I arrived at his place after only having two drinks over the night myself since I had my car. I walked in to a darkened apartment. I saw PBJ sitting on his couch, in the dark, with his poor dog looking quizzically at him for not petting her. He stood to greet me... or perhaps more wobbled to greet me.

He leaned in. "Heeey therrrrrre. Howzit goeeeeen." Yowza - beer breath. But there was some other smell I couldn't quite put my finger on before I stepped back.

"Hey. Wow you must have drank a lot tonight."

"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."

Then he leans in for a kiss. Now I figure out what that other smell is. Peanut Butter.

"Did you have any peanut butter before I came over?"

Instead of answering like a human being, he lunges in and kisses me. When he steps back again, there is a smearing of peanut butter across my face. The sticky substance is all over my face. Gross.

His next statement: "Owwwwwwwwwww." Turns out he had a cut on his tongue. First he blamed me, but considering he hadn't gotten that far, I knew it had nothing to do with me.

I go into the kitchen in search of a paper towel or something to wipe the mess off of me and to grab some ice for his tongue to help stop the bleeding.

On the counter sits the jar of peanut butter with the knife still sticking out of it. Because I'm civil and a nice person, I decide to try to clean up his drunken snack. Removing the knife from the peanut butter jar, I discover that it's the sharpest knife he had, serated, and HUGE. And there are obviously tounge streaks still on the knife. PBJ had licked the knife during his binge.

Meanwhile, PBJ starts snoring in the living room. I had been there for ten minutes.

Ridiculous.

It wasn't so much that he passed out, nor was it the peanut butter alone. If he had just been ready to pass out, that's fine. No biggie. And some might argue that peanut butter can be... interesting... in certain situations. Perhaps. But if you invite me to come over before you pass out, proceed to make a pass at me, and then still fall asleep... we have a problem. In this situation, it is niether cuddly nor kinky.

And it's definitely not cute.

Lesson to other boys - be very careful when you make midnight treats after a night of drinking. If it is a snack over which you have very little control that may end up all over your face or with which you can somehow manage to hurt yourself - do not invite a girl over. She will leave. And she will be mad you made her smell like peanut butter and gave her nothing in return.

Da Da Dadadadada Da Da Dadadadada (The Chicken Dance)

2008-01-14T11:55:00.002-05:00

The thing I hated most about Fred was the fact that he was completely incapable of not making a total ass of himself. I truly dreaded introducing him to anyone I knew, and hated going anywhere in public with him.

He had a way of embarrassing the hell out of me anywhere we went. I truly mean anywhere. The sorority formal where he decided to loudly announce that another girl looked like a man; the brunch where he was too stupid to figure out a prix fixe menu; my coworker's party where he decided it was appropriate walk around with his pants around his ankles because he was proud of his Nintendo boxers; the release party of a documentary where he decided to pick a fight with some reporters from a national news magazine and the infamous jorts incident are just a few of the times I found myself thoroughly humiliated because of him.

One of the more embarrassing incidents was the first time I introduced Fred to CCG and Dum Dum. Now, Dum Dum was a little special himself, so I figured that nothing Fred could do would be any worse than whatever tricks Dum Dum had up his sleeve that day. I really expected Dum Dum's shenanigans to outshine Fred's. But, I was in for a surprise.

The first time I took Fred to meet CCG and Dum Dum, we went to a local bar for happy hour. In addition to a few beers, we ordered some hummus, potato skins and buffalo wings. As soon as the snacks arrived, Fred wasted no time diving into the buffalo wings. He quickly devoured a couple of them and then...put his chewed-on chicken bones back on the plate with the rest of the wings. Disgusting!

Now, before I say anything else about this, I would like to mention that Fred insists there were no extra plates to put food on. All other people involved remember there being plates (perhaps Fred was too busy stuffing his face to notice). Even if this had been the case, Fred could have either asked for a plate (the bar was not busy), or put the bones on his napkin.

Plates or no plates, it was disgusting. CCG and Dum Dum were both totally grossed-out by this display. Yes, Dum Dum, the loser who had been traipsing around the city all day in high top black sneakers, shorts and no socks was disgusted by something my boyfriend did. That's damning. I was absolutely mortified by this experience.

But, the worst part was the fact that Fred was oblivious to their reactions just as he was oblivious to the fact that no one else touched the buffalo wings.

Since this was early on in the relationship and I hadn’t given up hope that I could mold him into someone who didn’t humiliate me, I mentioned the incident to him a few weeks later. Rather than consider my comment, he immediately got defensive and insisted that there were no plates and that CCG and Dum Dum had no grounds to think he behavior was inappropriate. I told him in the future to just use a plate and let the issue go.

Fred did not, however, let it go. It apparently bothered him enough that he brought this story up to all of his friends until he finally got some girl* to agree with him that he behaved appropriately in this situation. This really pisses me off.

I know this girl knew better than that. I don’t even know this girl, but hell, Dum Dum knew better! Look, I know that people often choose being nice over being honest, but seriously, there is a point where being nice does more harm than good. Fred did something inappropriate and by telling him it was acceptable, this chick is contributing to his behavior. Women like her are the reason there are so many men so set in their inappropriate ways.

* My note to this girl: I sincerely hope that your future husband gets belligerently drunk at your wedding and decides it is appropriate (because some girl told him so) to start stripping while you’re dancing with your father.

Somebody Save Me

2008-01-09T15:44:00.002-05:00

Yay for a joint post!

BJA

Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.

I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.

Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.

I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.

I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.

He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.

He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.

He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.

He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...

To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.

To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!

I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.

The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)

A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.

RGB

It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.

But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.

On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.

I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F

While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F

After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F

The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F

Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.

Here's Lookin at You Kid

2008-01-09T11:25:00.001-05:00

Ever notice how every relationship you've ever been in has pet names?

Some are traditional - baby, sweetie, darling, honey, sweetheart... etc.

Some are a little more complicated - sugar plum, baby girl, schnookums, shugie bear, mclovin, googlybear, snuggle muffin... whatever.

Most of them, I can get on board. I can handle the traditional obviously easier than the more complicated, but either is acceptable in most situations. Clearly these names are private or among close friends, and shouldn't be shared in professional or networking situations. Fortunately, I have never dated a guy to make that faux pas, but I thought I'd mention it for the studious gentlemen who may read this and need a clue or two for appropriate nickname usage.

Unfortunately, I have dated a guy who used a nickname that is not acceptable. This may be nitpicky, but do not ever ever ever call a girl kiddo.

"Hey kiddo, you should come over."

"Well hey there kiddo, what are you doing right now?"

"Oh kiddo."

I can get on board with most names, but not kiddo. I'm not eight. And I don't want people thinking I'm dating a perv. As far as I know, you're not one, but calling me kiddo sends the exact opposite message. Not to mention there are times when it is just effing awkward.

Lesson today: Don't call girlfriends a nickname than can only be described as creepy.

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-25T11:28:00.001-05:00

Now that I’ve gotten the annual “bad gift” post out of the way, I can put up my 2007 holiday post. This year, I got together with BJA and decided to make this years’ entry about family...more specifically, uncomfortable holiday experiences with our exes’ families (or our own, whatever). If you have any good stories to add, post in the comments section, or email me.

So, I will kick things off:

RGB

I had just met Fred (we weren’t really even dating at this point) when a hurricane was heading toward the city I went to college in. Class was going to be canceled for several days, giving us plenty of time to leave campus and go wherever for a while. This was about a week after things ended with Shrek, so I was feeling particularly awful and just wanted to go home (I should mention home was 1200 miles away. Clearly this wasn’t one of my most rational decisions). I had planned to take a flight back home, but Fred told me that he was going to drive out of town and was willing to take a 1200 mile detour and he would drive up to his house (another 500 miles) after that.

Somehow during the 18 hour car ride, Fred managed to convince me to spend a day at my house, then ride up to his with him.

By the time we had made it to Fred's house, I was completely drained from my recent break up, a long road trip, and the stress of having to leave school so suddenly. When we got to Fred’s neighborhood, he called his parents to tell them we were close. They were over at Fred’s uncle’s house and told him to just come over there.

When we got to the uncle’s house, there was a full family party going on. Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, EVERYONE was there. So, not only did I have the stress of meeting parents, I had the stress of meeting the whole extended family. Seriously.

Luckily, everyone was really nice, but there were a few VERY awkward moments. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is when Fred’s uncle, after having talked with me for 3 minutes, gave me a very sincere look and asked if I had considered marrying into the family. I was completely caught off guard, and frankly, a little frightened by the question. I responded that it was not something that I had considered. I was then invited to marry into the family. Definitely the most intense meeting of an ex’s family I’ve ever had.

BJA

Holidays are just the time for family, friends, fun, and festivities. Unless you're dating a loser. Then you can toss in a little mortification.

I was dating Neanderthal for... well in hindsight a lot longer than some of the others. He wasn't as bad as many of the guys featured in this blog. In fact, on a whole he was a good boyfriend. But his manners were deplorable. And after his behavior in front of my parents during the holidays... well it didn't last much longer.

Guys, may I stress that you must learn how to hold a fork before you dine outside of your home? You hold it as you would a pencil, or at least that's the closest approximation I can come up with. You do NOT hold it, as Neanderthal did, in a full fisted grip that enables you to shovel food in your mouth. It is gross. And it's ineffective. I can tell because the food is falling off of your fork in different directions. I remember my Granny, who was an impeccably mannered woman, trained by Mrs. Manners, nearly dropped her jaw. Please do NOT mortify me in front of my grandmother.

Food shoveler. Gross.

Drink it up

2007-12-24T08:49:00.001-05:00

I was in college once -- really. I understand the whole "leave no soldier wounded" mentality regarding alcoholic beverages. In fact, much to my mother's dismay, I still practice this sometimes (I can't even begin to tell you how many times my mom has told me "you've had enough; leave that soldier wounded"). I completely understand if one wants to finish his or her beer before getting up and leaving the table at a restaurant.

But Fred took this to a whole new level. The first time we went out to eat, he got up to go. I followed his lead, stood up and started to walk to the door. I was outside before I turned around and saw Fred's fat ass still standing at the table, chugging every single liquid on the table. Really. His beer, my coke, his water, my water. He drank each beverage as if he were trying to set the world record for speed drinking, resulting in beer, coke and water dribbled on his face and the front of his shirt. I had never seen anything like this before. It was truly a disgusting display.

When he finally made it outside, I had no idea what to make of what I had just seen. "Thirsty?" I asked him, slightly confused. I figured this was a one time deal, so I didn't really press the issue. Boy, was I wrong.

Every single time we went out, he would do this. It's not the fact that he wanted to drink everything on the table that bothered me -- it was the fact that he could not do this while sitting at the table. He would stand up, sometimes put on his coat, then chug everything on the table as if in two seconds, all the glasses would be taken violently away from him and he would never have another drop of liquid again. He did not leave a drop of anything on the table. It was amazing. He even consumed a good amount of the ice in his quest to drink as much as physically possible. Every single fricking time we went out. Even though it was clearly his goal to cram every liquid on the table down this throat as quickly as possible, the entire act usually took around a minute, which usually meant I was well on my way out the door before he started to actually leave.

I asked -- no, begged him to just drink what he wanted to drink while he was still sitting down. Aside from looking like a complete ass, he was blocking traffic for the wait staff trying to do their jobs by standing up in the middle of an aisle.

After a couple of months of this, I would start not getting up when he did because I knew the whole chugging display would take-up a ton of time.

Finally one day, I stopped him before getting up and told him in a very stern voice that I was serious about him not standing up to do the obligatory chug every single time we went out. I asked him to remain seated and drink what he wanted to drink. He seemed to listen and sheepishly finished his water, then said he was ready. I thought I had finally gotten through to him, and happily stood up and made my way to the door.

Half way out, I turned around and saw him standing at the table, chugging my drink. He looked at me as he finished my drink with a big, shit-eating grin on his face. Not only did he look like a complete dumbass, he was doing it just to spite me. At this point, it wasn't the fact that he was completely (for this and other reasons) not restaurant-trained that bothered me, it was the fact that he was determined look like white trash everywhere he went, even when he knew better.

The moment I locked eyes with him as he was putting my empty glass on the table was the exact moment I knew things weren't going to work out.